Dust After Rain
by Serindrana
Summary: Callista Curnow is unremarkable. She's a twenty-something freelance tutor with no particularly glamorous clients, she lives by herself, and has only one living family member. But sometimes unremarkable is exactly what catches a person's attention, and Callista Curnow has caught the attention of a dangerous man - with uncertain motives. Modern AU. Cover art by cparris.
1. Chapter 1

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Dust After Rain**_

_**Chapter 1**_

"Uncle? I think I'm being followed."

Callista bit her lip, then took a deep breath and continued, "Not at this very moment, you don't need to send a squad car, but for the last-"

She thought back.

"Two weeks, I've been seeing things. Just little things." Flashes in the corner of her vision, shadows on the eaves on an abandoned apartment, things just a little out of place at home. There hadn't been any signs of forced entry and, for the first week, she'd chalked it up to nerves. Some of her clients had folded, leaving her budget for the month strained. There were rumors of a nasty virus going around, and it was getting harder and harder to move around the city.

"I know the city's a mess right now," she said, suddenly not so sure that she had any right to be panicking, "and it could just be the news making me jumpy. Yesterday I barely got through the checkpoint leading to the Legal District. My papers... anyway, maybe it's nothing." The voicemail timer had to be running out, and she grimaced. "I- never mind. I'm sorry. See you next week for lunch."

Callista hung up and curled her fingers tightly around her phone. _Great_ - now Geoff was going to panic, all because she was a little on edge. Anybody would be, after the month she'd had. Fired by one family, strangely scheduled by another... She rubbed at her face. And now she had to visit the one pleasant student she had left, and maybe, just maybe, she was leading _somebody_ there.

There was nothing to do but keep moving. She sighed and slipped her phone into her pocket, then turned away from her apartment building and made for the bus stop.

Something shifted in the corner of her vision.

Callista stopped. The shadow stopped.

_Just nerves_, she told herself, and took another few steps. Nothing changed. Everything was as it should be. Still, she quickened her step as she passed a narrow alley, imagining with every heartbeat a hand shooting out from the shadows to grab her.

Nothing moved.

She drew up to the bus stop, next to a man in a fine suit and a dark wool coat. He had just lit a cigarette. In the distance, maybe five blocks down, she could see her bus. Her shoulders relaxed. Nothing would happen in public. A bus was probably safer than if she had a car of her own.

It was a miracle that the lines were even running at all, though. The transportation department's budget had been gouged over the last several months and, with the rumors of spreading illness, use had dropped off sharply in the last two weeks, cutting profit. The worst projections gave the system two more months before even the most-used lines had to drop most of their runs.

Callista made herself look away from the bus, and the worrying that came along with it.

The man tapped ash onto the sidewalk. He wore leather gloves, and his face was scarred. She managed a faint, tight smile as their eyes met, then she let her gaze drift.

He didn't look away.

"Callista Curnow," he said, softly, and her heart stopped. In her pocket, her phone buzzed. The bus was four blocks away now. She looked back up at the man.

Before she could scream, he'd thrown aside his cig and struck his elbow into her gut. She crumpled. He caught her.

The sky was a latticework growing close around her head as the shadows swallowed them both. She couldn't breathe, and her pulse hammered in the dark edges of her vision. The arm tight around her chest hauled her back, back, away from the road and the distant sounds of cars, from the bus pulling to a stop, from nobody noticing her desperate whimpers that were little more than an open mouth and a spasming larynx.

Her phone buzzed again. She tried to reach for it in a fog, even as she began to cough, desperately reclaiming the air that had been taken from her.

"I don't think so," the man said. He adjusted his grip, his arm now around her waist and elbows, pinning her to him while he rifled in her pockets. He took her keys, her small folding knife, her wallet, and slipped them into his own pockets. And then he took her phone, the screen flashing _Uncle Geoff_, and slammed it into the alley wall. It shattered, squealed, and went silent in his hand.

He tucked the wreckage into another pocket.

"Please don't kill me," she whispered, eyes bulging from their sockets, heels skittering along the litter-strewn ground. "Please, please-"

"I'm not here to kill you," he said. He loosened his grip. Hope surged for a moment, before he threw her to the ground, flat on her belly. He was on her in another moment, knee in the small of her back, hands sliding the tie from around his throat. "But if you scream, it will be much worse."

Her chest and lungs burned. Still, she tried to scream, hoping, always hoping that maybe somebody would-

He growled, a low animal sound, and for a moment she thought he would slam her face into the pavement. Instead, he covered her mouth with one hand. The leather of his glove smelled like tobacco and metal and something she couldn't place. Gunpowder?

He worked the tie over her eyes awkwardly, one-handed, with the help of his teeth. She thrashed. He swore. But soon enough she was blinded, and he could use his free hand to put pressure on her neck.

She stilled.

He leaned down close to her. "Be silent, girl," he murmured. "I may not be in the blood business anymore, but I know where your students live, where your uncle lives. He's your last living relative, isn't he? Important man. Don't make me lay him out on a slab."

The thought struck her, hard, and she closed her eyes beneath the silk. Her hope turned to ash in her mouth, and she swallowed it down along with her screams.

"Good choice," he grunted. His voice was rough as gravel, as split asphalt, and he smelled like smoke and a spiced aftershave. His miasma was all around her. She waited for him to press some drugged rag to her face, but he never did. He simply hauled her to her feet, and led her away.

* * *

The blindfold remained in place during the long car ride. He bound her wrists and ankles when they reached his vehicle, and he tucked her into the footwell of the back seat before covering her with a blanket. Her cheek and hands had begun to ache from the force of hitting the ground, but that and the silent screaming in her diaphragm that she never let reach her throat became just a part of the rhythm of the engine as they drove.

She tried not to imagine Geoff coming to the rescue, tried not to strain for any sound of sirens in the distance. All she could hear was the creak of the man's gloves on the steering wheel and the thud as they passed over grating and uneven patches of asphalt. Her own breathing was loud and ragged.

For years, there had been a row of small boxes and urns on a shelf in Geoff's home office, one for every family member he'd been close enough to feel the pain of losing. They were all gone, now, put into a small mausoleum that he'd spent years saving for, setting aside a part of every paycheck and bonus. They'd needed an entire stone room to hold the whole family as it slowly fell apart, and his police salary couldn't keep up with all of the funerals until they'd finally dwindled to nothing, because there was no one left to mourn.

Now she could see too clearly a small placard with her name on it, along with a few lines about how her body had never been found, sitting alone on that shelf for a day, a week, a year before he finally took it to the cemetery.

Her eyes burned, heavy with the threat of tears.

She had to get back to him. They had lost too much to lose each other.

She drifted in and out of awareness, never really sleeping, but never fully present. It was easier to retreat. The man never spoke. She never asked questions. Maybe it would make him treat her with some measure of mercy.

* * *

At some point, she must have slept. One moment, she was curled awkwardly on the car's carpeting, and the next she was tucked into a bed. There was never a moment of relief where she mistook it for her own; it was narrow, the pillow a hard, cold thing, and the blankets were too heavy.

Still, she held her breath as she opened her eyes.

The room was small, bare, and decorated only in white and black. The brightness of the walls and her bedspread burned against her eyes, while the black rug stretched across the white-painted floor seemed like a hole into nothingness. It was alien, wrong.

The door moved, and Callista made herself scan the length of it despite the overwhelming urge to shut her eyes against whatever was coming. There, below the doorknob, was a small, pale hand curled around the wood.

"Hello?" she asked, and her voice sounded alien to her, too.

"You're awake," said a small child's voice. The door opened a little more, and a girl not more than ten, with bobbed dark hair and white clothing, peered at her. She looked familiar in a dim, unsettling way. "He said it'd be at least another hour. He said not to wake you up. Did I wake you up?"

"No," Callista said, and, slowly, she sat up. Her jacket was gone, and her shoes, but she still wore her skirt and sweater. Her hair had come down from its bun, and she slowly picked the pins from it, eyes never leaving the wraith of a girl. "Who- are you?"

"Emily Kaldwin," the girl said.

Callista took a deep, shuddering breath. "Emily Kaldwin," she echoed.

The girl nodded.

_Emily Kaldwin_ had gone missing nearly a year ago, after the brutal murder of her mother, the first empress in Gristol's recent history to take power back from her ministers. _Emily Kaldwin_ was the heir to a great fortune and a legacy of political power. _Emily Kaldwin_ was standing in the same room as Callista Curnow, and the man in the dark suit must have brought them both here.

There were footsteps in the hall. Emily's expression changed, from cautious curiosity to fury to grief to numbness. "I ordered him to be nice to you," she said, a conspiratorial whisper that barely made it across the room. "But he just laughed."

The girl shut the door, and tiny footsteps faded quickly.

Callista stared after her.

She was still staring when he opened the door. He hadn't replaced his tie, and his combed-back hair was still mussed. She couldn't have slept for long, unless he enjoy being disheveled because of a fight and had left the signs of her failed struggle on him for her to see. She felt faintly nauseous.

"You're awake," he rumbled, lips curling faintly. "Then we can get down to business. I take it you saw Miss Emily?"

Numbly, she nodded.

"You will be her teacher. You will instruct her in all the subjects you are familiar with, and you will use the resources in this tower to teach yourself and her the subjects you are not. She will need to know mathematics, history, rhetoric, etiquette, and a hundred other little skills."

"What for?"

Daud shrugged, powerful shoulders moving beneath his suit jacket. He slipped his still-gloved hands into his pockets and regarded her carefully, looking her up and down several times. After a moment, he seemed to come to a conclusion. "She'll be taking her mother's place, of course."

"Did you take her?"

"Yes."

Emily Kaldwin had gone missing less than a day after her mother's murder. Corvo Attano, the head bodyguard for the family, had been arrested on the spot for Jessamine's death, but later investigations had suggested that he hadn't had the opportunity to remove the girl, as well. There were rumors of accomplices and of distant family members trying to get her out of harm's way. But there was never a ransom note, never a sign of her. The official inquest hadn't had to quash the speculation; it had died a cold death on its own.

The government had lost interest quickly, and it didn't surprise those with an ounce of attention; Jessamine had come close to breaking the ministers' powers. Hiram Burrows, the head of Gristol's Intelligence Bureau and the Empress's most loyal associate, had simply stepped into the vacuum, and life had resumed.

It had been the companies that Jessamine had owned that had kept up the search. They had benefited the most from Jessamine's reign, and they would benefit most if Emily was found. But weeks had passed, then months, and even they dropped out of public awareness.

"Who _are_ you?" Callista asked, unable now to pull her stare from him.

He didn't flinch away from it. Instead, his lips twisted into a thin, grim smile. "I'm a paid killer, Callista Curnow. Or used to be."

"Give me a name."

"Daud," he said, and panic overrode any horrified understanding she felt. She focused entirely on fighting the urge not to scream or crawl back along the bed. _Daud_ was a name whispered in the dark, a shadow run on news programs under the _at large and dangerous_ portion of the show. _Daud_ was a man her uncle had been trying to keep tabs on for years, but who was always too good, too fast.

Daud was rumored to have killed upwards of thirty people - and those were just the high-profile deaths that couldn't be covered up or forgotten in alleys or on the river. Esma Boyle's husband, Timothy Brisby's aunt. Then there were the innumerable deaths of the less important, and the undoubted loss of various others in manners not immediately attributable to violent causes.

"Good," he said, "you know the name." He sauntered closer. He was broad but compact, not much taller than she was. The scar on the right side of his face traced over deep lines in his brow, around his eyes. She placed him above forty. She also gave up on staying still, and shuffled back across the mattress.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at her.

"You're going to teach Emily Kaldwin everything she needs to know. In return, you will have meals, a roof over your head, and as much comfort as is reasonable. The library is well-stocked, the rooms are clean."

"But you'll be watching."

Another shrug. He pulled one hand from his pocket, flexed it, considered it as if he were checking his nails. "Sometimes."

"And I suppose I shouldn't try to get out?"

"That would be foolish, yes."

"So I'm not safe here at all."

His smile was all teeth and no mirth. "Depends on how pragmatic you are about safety. Stay within the rules, and you're just fine, if a little constricted. You can even write a shopping list and I'll see what I can do."

She stared up at him. _Shopping list_. The absurdity of it - imagining this man toting around grocery bags and goodies from stationery shops - made her head spin. She watched as he slipped his hand back into his pocket, the picture of arrogance, of confidence.

Something in her broke apart. Geoff had made sure to give her self-defense lessons, lessons that had failed her in the alley when she was too scared to move an inch. Now, though, with Daud so calm and at ease, she scrambled, launched herself at him. She caught him before he could get his hands out of his pockets, her weight knocking him off balance as she drove her knee into his gut.

It was only a glancing blow, but he stumbled back, fell to one knee. His eyes widened, and he was grinning, open-mouthed, even as she reached for his throat, his eyes. If she could get him to stay down for just a little bit-

She'd do what? Try to run out of the building? Find her uncle, hope he could pull enough strings to rescue Emily, save her students? Pray that Daud didn't have men out there even now, waiting? Dream of being forgotten, so she could see her students and have her lunch with Geoff, and only have to deal with nightmares?

He took advantage of her hesitation, and in a movement that seemed impossibly fast, he caught her around the waist and shoved her over, into the floor, bearing down with his body on top of her. She scratched and clawed at his face, tried to smash her knee into his groin, but he twisted in time to stop her. With one broad hand, he caught her wrists, pinned them up above her head.

"That's your one shot at me," he said, panting, even as she squirmed. If she could just get a hand free, get it into his collar- "Try this again, and I'll be forced to hurt you more permanently. Trust me, cooperating will be-"

She jerked forward, cracking her forehead against his. It cut him off mid-sentence, but the pain blossoming across her skull was too brilliant to think through. His grip on her loosened, and she managed to lash out blindly and strike his throat. He coughed, but didn't falter. Instead, he caught her free hand and squeezed, until she felt like the bones in her wrist might break.

"Give up," he growled, fitting his other hand around her throat. He didn't seem to care that she might strike him again. But even as she tried to, her vision grew blurry and her hearing pulsed with white noise. "Give up," he repeated, and this time his voice was distant.

Self-preservation kicked in before she could stop it, before she could commit to dying defiantly, and she went limp.

His grip on her loosened, but only by a fraction. He waited to see if she would launch herself at him again.

When she didn't, when she only laid still and kept her eyes closed, he let go of her. He patted her cheek lightly, and stood up, the wool of his suit sliding over his skin in a quiet rustle.

There were no footsteps. After a long moment, Callista opened her eyes.

He was gone.

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_Dust After Rain_ began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here are the prompts for Chapter 1!

_The shape of his shadow on the eaves of an abandoned apartment; the sky was a latticework growing close about her head; something about opening her eyes to white and black._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 2**_

When Callista had lost her mother, years after her brother and father had died and she'd learned how to polish their memorial urns, she'd given up. She had refused to step into the funeral home. Her uncle, only recently named her legal guardian, had looked at her - fourteen years old, too-quickly grown, sick of grieving - and he had smiled a very tight, very false smile.

"_We keep moving_," he had said, softly. "_There's nothing to do but keep moving. Otherwise, we don't honor the deaths that have come before us. Spine straight, Cal._"

And the pain in his voice had made the words sink in like no therapist's ever had, and she had nodded and followed him into the parlor.

_We keep moving_, Callista thought as she set a small stack of books and notebooks onto the round table.

The room was not very large. It had probably once been intended as a guest bedroom. There was a great window that had been barred with iron, a large blackboard, and a table with three chairs. Daud was not present to take one, though; it was only the two of them.

The blackboard was covered with spiraling doodles when she first stepped into the makeshift classroom. There were circles within circles, sharp-cornered curls and smooth ones, and some that looked like trees bent against a chalky sky. Adding to the maelstrom, Emily Kaldwin stood on her tiptoes and scratched a winding line into her masterpiece, rising up onto her tiptoes to take it as close to the top of the board as she could.

Her attention never wavered.

A night had come and gone since she'd been brought to this place, but this was the first time she'd seen Emily since waking. The girl looked healthy enough, and almost happy. She was humming to herself, and the scene she was drawing looked pleasant. There were no bruises or scrapes or cuts on her face, and she looked well-fed.

Was it possible that Daud was actually a decent prison warden?

They were held in a tower, at least twenty stories above the ground if not more, but Callista had only been able to wander through two floors of it, two floors that she suspected had once made up a lavish penthouse. The bottom floor held a great open kitchen and living space, with a great fireplace to keep out the damp and chill of the coming winter. There were a few rooms off of that, some with locked doors. She could see no evidence of stairs or an elevator downward.

Her bedroom and the classroom sat on the floor above. There was a small library. Emily's room was also likely behind another locked door, but she couldn't be sure. There was a bathroom down the hall with a gloriously hot shower with perfect water pressure. There was a linen closet filled with fine sheets.

Her own room boasted a chest of drawers containing, much to her horror, her own clothing.

She was the only thing in the tower not painted in white or black. Her clothes tended towards camel and soil, a hundred shades of dull brown to match her hair and eyes. She took some pride in that now. _She_ did not belong here. It made the blow of finding her own things a little easier to take; at least Daud had not dressed her to match her prison.

Methodically, Callista set out books in order of subject, then laid out a notebook and a pencil. Emily was still scratching at the board with her chalk. It would take forever to erase. Pursing her lips, Callista went to the low drawers along one wall.

There were calculators and notebooks and graph paper and protractors and yardsticks, but there were no highlighters or colored pens or markers.

"What are you looking for?" Emily asked, and Callista looked up. The girl was still drawing. "I heard you come in," she continued, "but you seemed busy."

Callista felt a small smile tug at her lips. "As did you. Let me know when you're ready to start."

"Are you going to teach me boring sums?" the girl asked, hopping up to draw a sunbeam high on the board.

"Yes," Callista said, moving back to the table and settling into her chair. "Though they're hardly boring."

"They're _so_ boring," Emily huffed. "And history, too, all those names and dates. Can you teach me something interesting? Like how guns work?"

Callista, hand extended for a book, froze.

"That's not exactly..."

"Proper?" Emily began drawing the bricks on the side of a house, in a space carved out of the maelstrom with a few blurring rubs of the side of her hand. "None of this," she said, gesturing with her other hand to the room and the tower beyond, "is proper. _I'm_ not proper. I don't see why I have to study _proper_ things. I want to know how a gun works, but there aren't any books on it."

"I don't know how guns work."

That wasn't entirely true; Geoff had taken her to a shooting range once a month when she was younger, before he'd gotten so caught up in work, before the young man from Tyvia he'd spent so much time with had died. She could handle a gun and understood the basic mechanics of them, even though Geoff had only once taken apart and cleaned a gun in front of her.

But she'd tucked that part of her away. She was a teacher. Teachers didn't handle guns.

Emily drew harder on the board, the chalk squealing against slate. "Then have Daud teach you."

Callista pursed her lips, then took a deep breath. A part of her had thought this would be easy, that Emily would come to her as an ally, that they would work together. Instead, for a hundred thousand reasons Callista could confidently guess at, Emily was closed off and sharp. She wore the armor of a girl who was learning to move ever-forward.

"I'll consider it," she said at last. "Now come over here. I promise your math lesson won't last longer than an hour."

"I'm busy," Emily said.

Since Callista had entered the room, Emily hadn't spared her a single glance.

Callista shook her head and opened the math textbook. She began to read aloud, not the words on the page but what they meant. The book was written in far too dry a tone for anybody to follow, least of all a willful girl who wanted nothing more than to draw and shoot a gun. Callista scanned the page and transmuted the knowledge into easy sentences.

Emily continued to draw.

It went on like that, through math, history, a passage from a famous novel. Callista read, her voice clear and even, and Emily ignored her. The scene on the blackboard grew more detailed. Still, Callista didn't give up. She couldn't make Emily sit, but she could expose her to ideas.

She could perform the letter of her job, if not the spirit.

Once or twice, the thought came to her to throw down the book and leave, to find Daud and tell her she wasn't a satisfying enough teacher. Tell him he'd made a mistake in choosing her. Tell him Geoff would come for her. She cast those aside as foolish and, moreover, cowardly.

She would not abandon her charge, even if her charge wouldn't look at her. And she would not open herself up to any failure that might make her a target.

She clung to Emily's words from the day before: _I ordered him to be nice to you_. A very small number of children that Callista had taught had been cruel or spoiled rotten from rich upbringings. Emily was not one of them. Instead, she was a girl who had lost a mother, and who had been locked away from her family and friends for- how long? Nine months? Longer? Callista felt as if she were looking in a mirror. There had been a time when she was just as willful, just as angry.

Callista read aloud.

Emily drew.

* * *

The clock struck noon. Callista put down the novel she was reading from and was silent.

After a few more minutes of quiet, Emily set down her chalk (the fourth piece that morning, the others were only nubs now), clapped her hands together to get the dust off, and at last turned away from the board.

For a moment, Callista expected the girl to simply leave the room, head down to the kitchen for lunch, but instead she came over to the table, still not looking at her. She slipped into her chair, and folded her hands together. Her feet didn't touch the floor, and she kicked her legs a little, frowning down at her thumbs.

Callista gathered up her books and pencils and set them down on the floor with barely a sound. She, too, folded her hands before her. She thought of saying that Emily could take a break, or asking if lunch was usually at noon, but pulled back from saying anything at all. She had stopped reading; Emily had stopped drawing. They'd come to some decision together. She watched to see what it was.

They sat like that together, neither one making a move to speak or acknowledge the other, until the door to the classroom creaked open. Both looked up. Daud entered the room, bearing a tray of tea and little sandwiches.

A quick glance at Emily revealed the girl lifting her chin imperiously, even as her eyes danced and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. _Not out of the ordinary, then_.

When she looked at Daud again, he caught her gaze and quirked a brow, daring her to comment. He was impeccably dressed again, though she thought she could see a bruise climbing the side of his throat. The absurdity was back. She imagined him with a stack of frilly packages for Emily, or a pink apron around his waist as he made her lunch.

Daud set the tray on the table. There were two cups.

"How are lessons progressing?" Daud asked, and she caught the barest hint of awkwardness in his voice. He felt as out of place as a waiter as he looked; it was vaguely reassuring.

Callista glanced at Emily, then straightened in her seat. "Very well," she said.

Emily returned the glance, warily, then reached for small triangle sandwich. "She's pretty good," the girl conceded.

Callista smiled.

The smile fell away as Daud's hand came down heavily on the back of her chair. His fingers curled around the wood. "Good," he said, and she heard the quiet threat in it.

Yes, it had been a good decision _not _to tell him she couldn't teach the girl.

"Miss Curnow, leave a list on the kitchen island of anything you require," he added. "Though I trust you've found your new home adequately stocked?" He inclined his head slightly, towards her outfit.

She stiffened. "Very," she said, voice flat.

"Good. Let me know if I've missed anything."

He let go of the chair and turned, walking out of the room. His feet moved silently over the tiled floor, and she kept looking down at his feet, wondering how he could move without a sound in such stiff and polished dress shoes.

The door closed.

They were alone again.

She sagged in her seat, closing her eyes for a moment and pressing her fingers to her temples, Emily fading from her immediate attention. Her body began to shake, her chest clamped by deep shivers. Given enough space and enough distractions, dissociation was easy. She'd had enough practice over the years. But without a single threat passing his lips, Daud had still managed to dredge up the terror again.

Porcelain scraped against the table. Callista opened her eyes to find Emily staring at her, pushing a plate of sandwiches towards her.

"It'll be okay," the girl said. "And he's a good cook. You should eat."

Emily didn't say _He's not a bad person_ or _We're safe,_ and that omission spoke volumes, but Callista contented herself with picking up an egg salad triangle and taking a bite. She chewed, swallowing past the constriction in her throat. It was like the night Geoff had made her pancakes for dinner, to try and cheer her up after the last funeral, after it was just the two of them. She'd made herself eat it all. It had hurt, it had threatened to choke her, but she had chewed and swallowed and shared a pitcher of lemonade with her only remaining family, because, if she hadn't, she would have screamed and broken all the windows in the house.

They ate and sipped their tea in silence. Emily squirmed a bit. She wanted to say something, but each time she got close, she backed away.

"Do you like tea?" Callista asked at last, setting down her empty cup.

Emily leaned forward and eagerly poured her another. The pot was almost empty; Callista got only two fingers' worth of tea and a helping of dregs. "Mmhmm," the girl said, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face. "And now I can have some with you."

"Do you have dolls you could bring?"

Pain took over her expression, before it was quickly hidden away again. "I'm too grown up for that," Emily said, straightening in her seat, a little empress already. "Only little girls do that."

The answer was clear: the dolls were gone, and Emily would have been too fragile to reach for them even if they were still there.

"Of course," Callista said, lifting the delicate cup to her lips and sipping. The tea was floral and fruity, mixed with quite a bit of sugar. She drank it anyway. "You're a very fine hostess."

"One day I won't need to serve the tea myself," Emily said, kicking her feet beneath the table. "One day I'll have servants again."

"Will Daud still make your sandwiches?"

She considered only a second, then shook her head, scowling.

"I thought he was a good cook," Callista said.

"He's a wretched man," Emily whispered, then glanced to the door. It remained shut.

* * *

Days passed in the same pattern. Emily would ask for lessons on guns, on warfare, on poisons, and Callista would refuse. The rest of the lesson was spent with Emily drawing, or bouncing a superball, or otherwise refusing to interact. Callista read aloud. Sometimes, when Emily wasn't using the blackboard, she'd write out equations, so that maybe, just maybe, when she left the board, Emily would take a look at them.

Daud sometimes sat in with them during the afternoons, and only then would Emily sit quietly at the table, book open in her lap, idly taking notes while Callista rambled on.

He always brought tea and sandwiches for lunch, and in the evenings, she'd find plates of food either hot on the table or cold and wrapped up in the fridge. He _was_ a decent cook. He was also absent much of the time.

Three days in, she left her first shopping list on the table. It read:

_1. Washcloths for scrubbing the board after lessons._

_2. Loose paper, including colored construction paper._

_3. Scissors._

_4. Glue._

_5. Paints, crayons, and/or pastels. Primary colors at least._

She pointedly asked for nothing for herself. All was for Emily. They seemed like reasonable requests - and ones that he was more likely to meet.

The next morning, there was a small stack of washcloths on the classroom table. She searched all the drawers, but there were no paints, no craft materials. She resolved to ask him about it, but by the time he brought in lunch, she had lost the nerve.

So she simply left him another list, stressing the importance of art in a child's development.

This time, he left her a bottle of her favorite shampoo, a fluffy brown towel (new), and a typed note that read:

_There are rules here._

There was no explanation of what the rules were, but she could guess. Brown seemed to be the only exception to the stark black-and-white color scheme of the place, and that exception was only allowed for her sake. Lips thinned to a bare line, the muscles in her jaw twitching, she picked up the slip of paper and tore it into tiny shreds.

* * *

One day, in the late afternoon, Callista was putting their books away when she thought to ask, "How long have you been here, Miss Emily?"

Emily, sitting on top of one of long chests of drawers and kicking her feet against the wood, stilled for just a moment before saying (rather bravely, if the lift of her chin was anything to go by), "Since a week after..."

And then she stopped.

Callista nodded, slipping the last book onto its shelf. "Has it always just been you and Daud?"

"Mmhmm." Her heels banged a little louder against the wood. "Since the first day."

"You've never seen anybody else? A cleaning service, maybe?" Callista said, straightening up and stretching.

"No, never." Emily glanced to the door, then said, "He does most of the cleaning himself, I guess. One time, I tried to make a huge mess. I used ketchup and mustard and painted on the walls. The next day it was all gone. Now I don't get ketchup _or_ mustard."

Callista's heart gave a sharp pang, thinking about the shopping lists, the note. "Has he ever given you a reason?"

"No. He told me to stop acting like a child, then left." Emily scowled. "But I wasn't acting like a child at all. Children play with their food because they're bored. _I_ was making a statement."

"You were," Callista agreed. "You absolutely were."

Emily smiled, a little flicker of a thing. "You know, maybe with the two of us we could paint a whole wall. He uses something yellow in the chicken salad-"

"Turmeric," she supplied.

"And I bet that would stain the paint. He can't paint over the walls, can he?"

The door creaked before Callista could respond, and Emily fell silent, stood up, walked mechanically over to the table. Callista had never seen or heard Daud chastising Emily for her posture, and Callista wasn't sure how much of Emily's regal carriage was simply another act of rebellion, a way to remind everybody watching that she was important, that she was supposed to be the one in control.

Callista remained where she was, clasping her hands before her.

Daud entered, with another of his trays. This one had no tea service, but it did have a pitcher of water, along with three plates of asparagus, a dish of spiced jellyfish, and pasta tossed with what smelled like hagfish.

They'd be eating together, then.

He set the tray down and settled himself into a chair. Emily sat ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, the picture of elegance.

"Well, come here, Miss Curnow," Daud said when Callista didn't move. His suit was impeccable. His expression was unreadable.

_I'm not hungry_ floated through her mind, but she wouldn't leave Emily alone with Daud, not if she could help it. She mimicked Emily's automaton motions, sank into her seat, and accepted the plate Daud passed to her.

They ate in utter silence.

The toothsomeness of the jellyfish (not crunchy, but not soft either - more a combination of the two, where the first bite was gentle, before turning crisp and strange) worked in harmony with the firmness of the pasta, the softness of the hagfish, the sharp separation of each bite of vegetable. It was miserable. It was unfair. She ate it anyway, swallowing past the usual closing of her throat.

Emily, like most children, tried to get out of eating the asparagus. She noticed how Callista seemed to enjoy hers, and offered some of her own. She did the same to Daud. Daud shook his head, and his expression wasn't as harsh or forbidding as Callista would have expected. It was almost... fond.

She hid her grimace behind a large forkful of pasta. The thought was obscene.

Finally, Emily's squirming seemed to become too much for Daud to bear. Her composure slipped with every grudging bite she took. With a shake of his head, he motioned for the door.

"Go on," he said.

The girl didn't need any further exhortations.

"Wash up before bed," Callista said. Emily was already halfway through the door. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then disappeared around the corner.

Callista stared back down at her food.

If this were a normal dinner, she might have asked where he learned to cook. The spices on the curling, slithering strips of jellyfish were unfamiliar. Instead, she crossed her legs at the ankle so he wouldn't hear the jiggling of her foot.

He finished before her and sat back, watching. It only took a few vague pushes of her fork along her plate for him to ask, "Has your meal been tormented enough yet?"

Not sparing him a glance, she pushed her plate towards him.

She listened as he gathered up the dishes, then lost track of his silent footfalls as he drifted from the room. Alone at last, she let her head fall forward into her hands.

Emily needed paint. She needed color, and paper, and glue, and stamps, and colored pencils. It wasn't enough to give her chalk and history books and pretty white clothing. If she was going to live - _live_, and not just survive - she needed rainbows and sunlight and the early winter breeze. But even if those things could have been brought home in a shopping bag, Daud would not carry them.

Tomorrow would be a day for sweet, good lessons, then. Interesting things. Happy things. Perhaps the history of Morley food, or funnier stories from the establishment of the Abbey. Determined, Callista stood up and tucked all the chairs in. She glanced at the blackboard, then decided to leave the day's drawing there. Perhaps after a good night's rest, Emily would have something more to add to it.

She stepped out into the hall, now lowly-lit for the evening. Daud must have toggled it as he made his way down to the kitchen. In the distance, she could hear the shower running, and some off-key singing.

"Miss Curnow."

Callista watched as Daud seemed to melt from shadows too small to contain him. The thought was pure fancy, of course - he had simply stepped from around the corner. His expression was harder than it had been over dinner.

Her good spirits faded.

"Hold out your hand," he said.

"Why?"

"Do as I say," he said, and, grudgingly, she did.

He pressed a wad of paper scraps into her palm. "I believe," he said, "you know where the trashcan is?"

For a moment, she only stared. She'd torn up that note two days ago, and when she'd come down to the kitchen later that day, all the evidence had been cleared away. There had been no acknowledgement, no repercussions. She'd thought that it was all past.

But he'd kept the scraps, waiting for- what? Her guard to drop?

She curled her fingers around the mess and dropped her hand to her side, saying nothing.

"If this is your rebellion, it's lacking in spine," he added. "Take a page out of Morley's book. Learn how to build a bomb out of the chicken salad in the fridge."

"I was angry," she said.

"Yes, I got that part."

"And I wanted to let you know it. The girl deserves the ability to express herself." She straightened, meeting his gaze without having to rise onto her toes. If he noticed, he didn't show it.

Instead, he said, "She does well enough with chalk," and glanced pointedly back at the classroom's chalkboard.

Callista scowled. "She's a child, Daud."

"There are rules, Miss Curnow." He took a step towards her.

"And who sets them?" she asked, taking a step back.

"That's none of your concern," he said, voice dropping to a growl. She matched each step he took towards her, retreating back into the classroom.

"Are you saying it isn't you, then?" He couldn't be working alone, could he? No; the job was too big. An ally on the outside, then, who had told him where to find her. "Somebody else did the decorating?"

"You're treading on very thin ice right now. I advise you watch your step," he murmured, and when his gaze wandered down to her throat, she didn't mistake his meaning at all. He'd choke her again, or snap her neck.

She took several deep breaths.

"The paints-"

"Are non-negotiable," he said, cutting her off. "She will not get them."

"Colored paper?"

"Likewise."

"Clay, then?"

Daud opened his mouth, then paused, shut it again, canted his head. "... I'll consider it," he said at last.

It was a small victory, but it buoyed her. Her shoulders straightened again, out from their cowering sag.

In that moment, he reached out and grabbed the tip of her chin. He didn't have to tilt her head up to meet her gaze, but his control over her was undeniable. She swallowed.

"Be careful what you push on, Miss Curnow," he said. "This tower is the safest place in the city, but that doesn't guarantee your comfort."

And then he let go of her, turned, and strode down the hall with an even, lazy gait, as if he had no reason to fear her.

She supposed that was true.

* * *

"Callista?"

Callista looked up to see Emily peeking around the half-open bedroom door, and found a smile for her. "Do you need anything, Miss Emily?"

Without a word, Emily slipped inside the room. She stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind her, legs crossed at the ankle. She looked like a little dancer. "I'm fine with just chalk, you know," she said.

Her eyes widened before she looked away and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her laugh was more than a little embarrassed as she finished tidying up the small bookshelf, filled now with things she might like to read in the evenings. "So you heard that?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Emily nodded. "And I saw the shopping list."

"Well, I thought I might as well try," Callista said, brushing that wayward strand back again. She turned to face her charge. "It seemed important."

Emily pursed her lips, as if considering what she wanted to say. Would it be a quiet _thank you_? A comment about life before this nightmare? A sobering thought struck Callista - was it possible she was worried about Callista's safety?

But instead of saying anything along those lines, Emily took great long steps over to Callista's bed, then hopped up onto it, legs over the side. She smiled. "It was pretty cool, you know. Standing up to him in the hall. I didn't think he'd pick somebody like you."

She glanced at the door - knowing that, if Daud wanted to listen, he could likely do it whether it was open or not. There was no sign of him, though, and it made her feel comfortable enough to step a little closer to Emily and murmur, "Do you know why he picked me?"

"You're a good teacher," Emily said.

"There are a lot of teachers much better than me," she said, "that could teach you the things you would have learned... at home. Has there been anybody else? Did he try anybody else?"

Emily looked down, kicked her feet. "... Once. For a few days. I didn't like him. I stopped up the toilet and flooded the bathroom and blamed it on him. I don't think Daud believed me, but he was gone the next day."

_Gone_.

"That was months ago, though," Emily continued, looking back up with a shrug. "And he was stupid. Arrogant and mean and stupid. I like you a lot more. Have you found any books about guns?"

Callista's head spun. "Ah-" From the death of an innocent man to Emily liking her, to _guns,_ in the span of a minute - _less_! She smoothed down her shirt and skirt. "No, but I've only looked at what books we have in the library," she managed. "I haven't asked Daud yet."

Emily's lips pursed again. "Maybe you should ask. But maybe if you ask, he'll be afraid you're going to somehow build one..."

"I doubt that," she said. "Unless he really thinks I can make a weapon out of leftovers."

"One time he forgot to clean out the fridge for three weeks," Emily said, and Callista felt herself smile.

"And here I thought he was always meticulous."

"He usually is, that's why I didn't realize at first! And then I saw the pot roast had gone fuzzy, and I decided not to tell him. I wanted to see how long it would take him to notice. Took another four days." Emily grinned back at her.

Callista sat on the edge of the bed, next to Emily, and while the girl scooted a bit to give her more room, she didn't get up or close herself down. Instead, she gave a little bounce and looked around.

"I hope he brings paint anyway," she said. "You look out of place, since you're not wearing white."

"Or black," she pointed out.

"Only Daud wears black," Emily said, nose wrinkling. "And white would look weird on you. Brown's sad, though. Maybe yellow?"

"I'm not a big fan of yellow," she said, smiling again, more broadly this time.

"Blue, then. All sorts of blues. And stripes! You should ask him for a blue sundress, if he won't get paints." Emily beamed up at her, then held up a finger. "Hold on. Right there. I know what we can do!"

Callista watched as Emily sprinted out of the room, listened to the sound of her door opening and closing. A moment later, Emily came strolling up to her - more stately now, less girlish - with her hands again behind her back. Slowly, with great fanfare and flourish, she pulled something from behind her back and held it out.

It was a hair comb in the shape of a swan, with bright blue eyes.

"You can wear this until he gets you that dress," Emily said, leaning forward to tuck it against Callista's bun. "But then I want it back."

Callista reminded herself to breathe. Swans were the emblem of the Kaldwin dynasty. This could have been- _might_ have been- _had_ it been her mother's?

No. The thought was ludicrous. It was just a girl's trinket, brought with her the way Callista's clothing had been.

"Promise?" Emily asked.

"Promise," Callista said, and took Emily's outstretched hand to seal the oath with a business woman's handshake.

* * *

Emily put herself to bed, saying goodnight to her small and limited world as she shut the door. Her light stayed on only half an hour. After that, the floor was quiet and dark.

Callista toed off her shoes and spent a good hour in the library, perusing the books, checking for sources that might be useful for a pleasant lesson. It was a beautiful room, the library, and better stocked than she would have credited Daud with. Most of the books were even well-used, if not well-loved.

Still, the bookplates in the front, all scratched out or inked over, did not suggest that Daud was the proud and doting owner. She tried not to think where he'd found these.

She set aside a stack in the classroom, then stood in the hallway and looked around. Emily was asleep. Daud was gone. There were no dishes to be done in this place, nor any hobbies to indulge in. There was, however, cereal downstairs in the cupboards, and the lead weight in her stomach had loosened enough that she was hungry again.

She was just shy of the landing when she heard footsteps. Emily had gone to bed an hour ago, and whoever was walking around down there was far heavier. Callista crept to the doorway of the open expanse of the first floor and peeked into the shadowed space.

Half of her expected to see Daud, but the other half kept thinking of how silently he moved, even in dress shoes. The silhouette bumping around near the kitchen island certainly seemed like the right shape for him: broad-shouldered, stocky, all straight lines like he was wearing a suit. But Daud was not the sort of person to talk to himself, and as she crept closer, she could hear muttered half-breaths.

_Go back upstairs_, she ordered her legs, but they didn't respond. Instead, she stuck to the shadows, slipping into the room and closer to him. There was light coming down the half-hallway to the south.

Her world slammed to a halt.

One of the doors was open, and warm light spilled from it, illuminating what the dimmed track lighting didn't. Daud had his hands braced on the kitchen island, his head bowed. The light caught the line of his cheek and jaw, stuttered over the puckered scar along the side of his face. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. His hands, gloved even now, fisted against the granite countertop.

"I don't care," he muttered. She could barely hear him. Her palms were growing clammy, her fingers itching to do something. Her heart jumped and fluttered, begged her to retreat. She didn't.

"I _really_ don't care," Daud added, as if in response to something. He lifted a hand to his mouth, rubbed at his jaw. "Some things, you don't move forward from. Leave me alone." Those last words were hissed, so softly that she wasn't sure she'd heard them at all. His shoulders trembled as if under a great weight. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could just make out the shadow of a bottle by his right hand, the glint of a glass nearby.

He fell silent, motionless, and Callista plastered herself against the wall at her back. She was far enough from the windows and the light from the open door that she wasn't lit or silhouetted, but she still felt certain that if he looked up, he would see her.

His breathing was ragged, the sound filling the room.

"I didn't ask for a visit." He paused. "Funny, that," he said, no trace of humor in his voice.

There was another, almost unendurable, stretch of silence where Callista thought he'd surely hear her breathing, hear her heartbeat. Then Daud reached for the bottle. He stopped halfway, curled his fingers into a tight fist.

"I do _not_ give in," he said, loud enough that for one, desperate moment she feared he was talking to her.

But instead he stared off into the middle distance, and for the first time she realized he was swaying, ever so slightly, now that he wasn't firmly braced against the counter. He stood unmoving as his other hand searched around, then finally snatched up the bottle and poured more than a few fingers of drink for himself. He slammed it back, and topped his glass off before taking it, and the bottle, back to his open door.

Callista let out a long, shuddering breath.

Distantly, she heard the door close. She took a few tentative steps, relearning how to move, towards the fridge. It was only then, moving into the middle of the room, that she realized there was still a sliver of warm light slashing across the barely-a-hallway.

The door hung open a fraction of an inch. Behind it sat Daud. Between them there was no lock.

Her hand hovered over the fridge handle. If she opened the fridge, would he hear the noise? See the flare of light? And what if she actually made herself cereal? He'd hear the patter as it landed in her bowl, maybe even come out to see who was munching in the dark.

She hesitated.

She turned away from the fridge and stared at his door.

Daud was drunk, or getting there - of that much she was certain, if not from the swaying of his shoulders, then from how great a drink he'd just knocked back. But a drunken Daud could likely still take her down in less than the time it took to pour himself another glass. Going near the room seemed foolish.

But she knew he was otherwise occupied. She could see if a shadow passed in front of the door, signalling that he was about to step out. She knew where he was.

Barefoot, she padded over to one of the walls. She slid her hands along the smooth surface, searching for anything out of the ordinary. She'd tried this trick once or twice already, but always with the certainty that at any moment, Daud would appear behind her.

Now, she kept one eye on the slit of light in the hall, and gave the rest of herself over to a desperate search.

She was convinced that, somewhere, there was a secret panel or room that led to an elevator. It was the only thing that made sense. Daud may have been many things, but he was also a man, not some terrible spirit from a children's story. He couldn't fly, couldn't teleport, and twenty flights of stairs seemed excessive on a day-to-day basis. Her fingers sought out invisible seams while she did her best to ignore, at least for the moment, the reality that one of the locked doors was far more likely to lead to her escape.

Once, the sound of something scraping over wood made her freeze in place. A chair creaked. A glass clinked. Then everything was silent again.

Was the room Daud had retreated to his bedroom? An office? The guard post that sat in front of the elevator? Was he waiting for somebody? Was that what he had meant by _I didn't ask for a visit_? Callista shivered at the thought. How many people knew they were here?

She couldn't dwell on it, she decided. Dwelling would have to happen upstairs, in her room, where she could sit on her narrow bed and feel as resigned as she wished to. Down here, there was only room for action.

Working in silence, she checked every inch of wall she could reach. She checked the kitchen island on a wild theory that maybe one of its walls would slide away and reveal a hidden staircase. She even gave in to impulse and began checking the locks on all the other doors, carefully twisting the knobs until she was sure they had caught, then gently undoing the torque.

There was nothing.

Beyond the great windows stretching along a wall-and-a-half's length of the room, the moon had risen heavy and bright above Dunwall's skyline. There was no clock, but she guessed, based on late nights she'd spent working on lesson plans back in her apartment, that it was past midnight.

She'd spent well over an hour in her search with nothing to show for it.

She'd also spent well over an hour searching with no more sounds from Daud's room. The thought made her halt at the base of the stairs. Maybe, if she just took a look, to see what was inside-

Five minutes later, she had pushed past enough of her fear that she had slipped into the short hallway, committing herself to her course. She'd taken her deep breaths and shaken out her shoulders. Now she moved on silent, bare feet to the doorway.

If he was looking towards the door, he would see her no matter what. She had to assume that. So, at the last minute, she straightened up and simply peeked into the room.

_I'm sorry, I couldn't sleep_, she'd say. _I saw the light and was just wondering_...

She didn't have to. Inside the room was a desk perpendicular to the wall on the right, and in the chair behind it, turned away from the door, she could see the bulk of Daud's body. He couldn't see her as her gaze flickered over the contents of the room. It was small, surprisingly so by the standards of this place, and one of the windows was cracked. It was barred, like the windows in her bedroom and the classroom, but it had been open long enough that detritus had accumulated on the sill: bird shit, scraps of paper carried on the wind, wispy petals that had already begun to rot. The room was slightly chilly.

On the desk were a scattering of books, a bottle of Morley-made whiskey, and a half-empty tumbler. On the walls was a mess of papers, pinned up and annotated with red and black marker.

Her own face stared back at her, smiling, from one of the pages. It was the picture on her website for her tutoring services. There, beneath it, was another shot of her, this time from afar, somewhere downtown. And there- tucked beneath a fluttering piece of paper was another picture, this time of her apartment building.

She made herself look away, but a few feet to her left she saw her picture again - the same picture from her website. Geoff had taken it for her. It had been a good day - she'd just received her young child teaching certification, and was fully settled into her new apartment.

Beneath her picture, in big, bold letters, were the words:

**_MISSING. REWARD FOR INFORMATION_**.

It bore the logo of the city police.

Geoff was looking for her.

For just a moment, she considered turning away. She could go upstairs and wait, and soon Geoff would be there to save her. But Emily Kaldwin, more important and more well-known, had been here for nearly a year. Nobody had come for her.

And then there was the matter of the elevator.

It was built into the right side of the room, doors near the desk, and currently it hung open and empty. Just a few steps, and she'd be out.

She should go upstairs, wake Emily. Gather their things. Hurry her down here and-

What?

Usher her into Daud turning around?

The thought was sobering, and she took a step back from the door. This was foolish. In half a second, he'd turn around, bark a laugh, threaten her. She had to retreat. If she left now, he'd never know.

Daud's arm slipped over the side of his chair, and hung limp. A snore broke the weighty silence.

He was asleep.

There was no other option. If she went to go fetch Emily, she could lose her chance. If she left now, she could find Geoff, tell him everything. Daud wouldn't be able to stop her in time, not if she went straight to the station, or called him at the first payphone she found. _Shit_. She slid her hands over her skirt. Her pockets were empty. She didn't have a _coat_. It was past midnight in the early winter, and she didn't even have shoes.

Still, she nudged the door open a little farther. There, by the wall, was a small pile of change and a keycard.

_This is it. This is your chance. _**_Take it_**_. _She licked her lips, swallowed past her dry throat, and stepped into the room.

It should have been harder to steal up to the desk, carefully pluck the change piece by piece without a sound from the table. She slid the keycard into her palm. The room reeked of booze, and this close, she could see some of Daud's profile. He looked troubled, brow furrowed.

Good. Good, he deserved to be.

She only prayed he wouldn't take this out on Emily, and that she could move fast enough to get the girl out before it became an issue.

Callista stepped into the elevator, slid the keycard into the waiting slot, and pressed the button for the lobby.

With only a faint rumble, the doors closed and she began to descend. It was only as she watched the numbers click down that she remembered she was still wearing Emily's comb.

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_Dust After Rain_ began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here are the prompts for Chapter 2!

_The blackboard was covered with spiraling doodles when she first came in. Circles in circles. Edged ones and straight ones and some that looked like trees, bent against a chalky sky; Daud's feet moved silently over the tiled floor, and she always caught her eyes flicking down to look at his feet. His shoes, shiny and neat and thick; her own face stared back at her, smiling from a closed box._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 3**_

The elevator let her out into the lobby with a faint _ding_. Daud must have muffled whatever made the noise at the exit into his office, likely so she and Emily couldn't hear it. Her bare feet made no sound on the fine marble floor until she accidentally toed a crumpled piece of paper, sending it skittering. The lobby wasn't half as clean as the penthouse. It had all the signs of being long-abandoned, and Callista made sure she watched where she put her feet.

There was a single light hanging from the ceiling, steady and bright, and for a moment, looking at the door and her reflection in the windows, she considered staying there until dawn. But she didn't know how long Daud would sleep, or when he would next leave the building. No, she had to go _now._

Pocketing the keycard, Callista edged to the front door. Halfway there, she reconsidered, and turned around in a slow circle.

An old emergency exit sign glowed from the far back corner. She made for that instead.

How many security cameras did Daud keep down here? She spotted one and tried not to acknowledge it. Where did he monitor them from? She hadn't seen anything but a single computer on his desk, and that hadn't cast its telltale glow. One of the other locked rooms? She swallowed down her fear. There might be other security measures ahead, yes, but she could run if she had to, bare feet and all.

The emergency exit door gave with a loud squeal of unoiled hinges. It opened onto a side-alley and chilly night air that had only been swirling in eddies in the lobby proper, too faint for her to pay it any mind. Callista clenched her jaw and pushed out into it, eyeing a passing rat in the gutter for a moment, then ignoring it altogether.

The district was silent. She had noticed, looking down from the windows up above, that there was little traffic. When night fell, there was no glittering patchwork of lights flickering on in apartment windows. But on the ground, she could see the district was truly abandoned. There were broken windows, cracked pavement, climbing ivy.

Where _were_ they?

It wasn't even one of the poorer districts, where jobs were scarce but people hung on because there was nowhere else to go. The streets were dead. The streetlamps worked only half of the time. Callista stepped out onto the main boulevard and saw-

One building with neon lights, three blocks down.

The sign said **_WOLFHOUND_** and for a moment she thought she could hear the throbbing bass line of a pulsing dance song. It was only nerves, though, and her own pounding heart, and she set off in the opposite direction, refusing to look back. Looking back wouldn't help her. She had to move _forward_.

It took her another fifteen minutes and countless twists and turns before she caught sight of the Wrenhaven and realized where she was. _Rudshore_. It was empty and had been empty for over a year, evacuated of its businesses and its fine dining and fancy apartments when the retaining walls on the river had broken during a great storm. If it had been a poorer place, those the floods had displaced would have returned, gathering up the wreckage of their lives. The rich had just moved on.

Rudshore meant she was near the coast, and that if she could just get across the river, she'd be near home, near the busline that could take her directly to Geoff's station.

She found the glinting lights at the top of the nearest bridge, there to orient ships like tiny lighthouses, and she started walking.

* * *

The sun came up, its light coming thin through the morning haze. Daud had not found her. She stood at a bus stop, counted her change, and realized that she didn't even have enough for a one-way fare.

She stepped back and turned away, as if uninterested, as the bus came to the stop, slowed, then ultimately moved on.

Daud still had the broken pieces of her phone, along with her keys, her wallet, her ID- so much of her life. It was incredible how alone she felt, even with the sun shining on her and a few people walking by, in her own neighborhood. She had thought her loneliness reached its murkiest, most wretched depths after her parents had died.

This, in its own way, was far worse.

Callista took a deep breath. Her feet were swollen and scraped and dirty, her mind and body running on empty. She could try to break into her apartment. Her absentee building manager wouldn't be there to let her in, so she'd have to hope the fire escape ladders were down. But she could already imagine her few small rooms ransacked, Daud's scent on everything.

_No._ Not yet. She couldn't go there yet. And that was _if_ her landlord hadn't decided her absence constituted a breach of contract.

Geoff's station was two miles away. There was a closer one, in the opposite direction, within a mile. They wouldn't recognize her there, but maybe if she was polite, and only asked to use the phone...

_The phone_.

At the end of the block there was an old payphone, tucked up against the wall of a convenience store. It had always seemed out of place, and she had no idea if it even worked, but before she could talk herself out of it, she was taking limping, aching steps towards it. She rubbed the coins she'd taken from Daud between her palm and fingertips. How much would it cost? She'd never been isolated enough to have to try - she'd always had her house phone, or a cell, or access to Geoff's house if she somehow had neither.

She reached the booth. It smelled like stale piss, and the glass was plastered with old advertisements, including several for a place called the Golden Cat that promised drinks and... _company_. The receiver was sticky. Still, it gave a dial tone, and a quick calculation proved she had enough for a single call.

Biting her lip, she called not the station, but Geoff's cellphone.

It rang. It rang. She counted the rings with a sinking heart. Still, she'd leave him a message. That'd be enough. She'd tell him where she was, and then try dialing the emergency number. Maybe it'd go through without money. Maybe-

"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.

Callista frowned. "I- sorry, I must have the wrong number-" she muttered.

"No, hang on! Is this Callista? Callista, this is Eugenie Anderson, Rhys's- Rhys's wife." The woman's voice cracked. "We met last year at your uncle's. Are you still there?"

She swallowed and tried to control the shaking in her hand, rattling the plastic receiver against her ear. "Eugenie? Why do you have Geoff's phone?"

"Oh, sweetie-"

Her heart had already fallen to the bottom of her chest, and now it began to shrivel, to shake, to spasm. Callista felt tears on her cheeks. "Eugenie, is Geoff there?"

"He's been missing for four days, honey." The words were barely a whisper over the line.

She closed her eyes. "I see," she said, flatly.

"Three days ago- three days-" Eugenie's voice caught, cracked again. "Rhys is dead. And they're not looking into it like they should. They're saying Rhys was caught up in some- some _scheme_. Embezzling, corruption, _something_. They think Geoff was in charge of it. But that doesn't make any _sense_, and I don't know what to do!"

Callista couldn't respond.

Eugenie gasped for breath and composure. Seconds ticked by. At last, Eugenie asked, "Are you safe?"

"I'm safe," she said. She could feel only the bleakness, the desolation, of another death. The last death. He was the only family she had left, and now... "Are you at the station?"

"No. I don't want them having his phone. I think they're trying to hide something. Callista, are you sure you're safe?"

"I'm sure. Eugenie, is there family you can stay with?"

"Yes."

"Then go to them."

"Is something going on?"

"I don't know," she said. "But I do know that when I lost my parents, I needed Uncle Geoff. Take care of yourself."

"Callista?"

"My phone's broken, so I'll call you again when I can. If you see my uncle-" Her voice caught, but she shoved it down. "If you see my uncle, tell him I love him, and that the message I left him was just me being foolish. Okay?"

"Callista-"

Shaking, Callista hung up the payphone.

It wasn't fair, for the sun to be out and shining so brightly. What should have been a blessing - a bright day keeping her warm despite her too-light clothing, cheering her mood, giving her hope - only mocked her. Her uncle was missing. His partner was dead. There were accusations of corruption, embezzlement, things she knew had to be lies, damn dirty lies, but that she couldn't do anything about.

She stared at the payphone.

Where did she go from here?

She couldn't go home. Daud would find her there. She couldn't go to Geoff's house - the odds were too high that Daud had been responsible for _that_, too, and even if he hadn't been, it couldn't be safe. She had no other family, scarcely any acquaintances, certainly no friends.

Would the police even care? If she told them she knew where Emily Kaldwin was, would that help her or put her in a new kind of danger?

She stepped back from the phone booth, looking up and down the road, feeling every bit as lost as she had when, as a small child, she'd wandered past the dead end of her street and down into one of the storm canals, just as dark clouds were beginning to roll in. She wanted to drop to her knees and cry and pull at her hair.

Instead, she stood, transfixed on a meaningless point some few feet from where she stood.

_I got away_ _for nothing_, she thought, bleakly, and tried not to shake apart at the seams.

Setting off down the street, she did her best to look around, to stay aware of her surroundings. If Daud came for her again, she wanted to see him coming. That was the only reason that she noticed the man across the way, with long, tangled hair and shadowed eyes that glanced to her and away from her, again and again.

She slowed.

He kept pace.

Even across the street from him, she could tell he was tall and lanky in an ill-fed sort of way, and that he moved in tense, furtive bursts, like a rodent. It was only when he disappeared behind traffic that she let out a long, tense breath. He didn't reappear when the traffic cleared, and she hadn't seen him cross the street.

By the Void, she was getting paranoid. Being stared at was the least of her problems. Finding a place to sleep, a way to tap her bank account without her debit card or her ID-

"Don't move, or scream," said a rasping, quiet voice behind her. It belonged to a man, and he had what felt like the muzzle of a gun pressed against her spine.

_No_, she thought, heart falling. _No, no._

This was ridiculous, absurd. Somebody would see. Somebody would _care_.

The pressure of the gun lessened.

"Tell me," the man murmured, "where you got that comb."

"You can have it," she said, and it was a credit to her time in the tower, to the steel cast her numbness had taken, that she met him coolly despite her terror. _Here I am, being mugged in broad daylight_. "Take it. Please, just leave me alone."

"I don't-" He bit off his sentence. Clearly, he _did_ want it. She hazarded a glance back over her shoulder.

"Eyes straight ahead." The gun nudged against her spine again. She turned her head away from him.

"Somebody is going to notice," she said. _Please, somebody notice_. _Please, realize this is stupid and leave me alone_.

The man was silent for a long moment, and then he took the gun away and settled his other hand on the small of her back. His fingers bumped up the knobs of her spine, an inch higher, then another. Gently he pressed, and she took a step forward. He walked a pace behind and to her side. From the corner of her eye, she could make out the same shaggy dark hair of the man across the street. He was tall. His jaw was unshaven, covered in patches of scraggly growth. He looked...

Tired.

"Tell me where you got the comb," he said again, softly, and she wondered if she had half a chance if she screamed for help or tried to attack him.

"A student gave it to me," she said. Utterly truthful.

"A student," he repeated, his voice catching almost imperceptibly. "A student. How- how long ago? When?"

Callista considered lying, then shook her head and said, "Yesterday."

"And you know where she is now?" Suddenly he sounded on the verge of tears, and she stopped walking, turned to look at him. Tension and fear and frustration bunched in her throat and gut, and she longed to simply take the comb from her hair, shove it into his hands, and tell him to leave her the fuck alone.

He stared at her, stunned and distraught and-

Hopeful?

He didn't move to restrain her, instead taking her by the shoulders and staring into her eyes. "Yesterday? Please, please tell me you know where she is."

His eyes were no longer in shadow. His hair still covered part of his face, but in this light, recognition clicked into place.

Corvo Attano, murderer of Jessamine Kaldwin, former head bodyguard to the Kaldwin empire, stared at her and begged her to tell him where the child of his last victim was.

"Let go of me," she whispered.

"Tell me where she is," he said, and the hope in his voice twisted into anger, into violence. His hands tightened on her shoulders. "I need to find her. I need to _protect_ her." Surely he'd realized that she'd recognized him. He had to have seen the light in her eyes, the knowledge.

"Let go of me, or I'll scream. I'll scream your name. They'll take you back." How had he even gotten out? His sentence was _life_, emphatically - it had been on every news station, in every paper. There's no way he was out on parole, or Geoff would have mentioned it.

The thought of her uncle sent another frisson of pain through her. Her face twisted up into an expression of despair and grief, and she slammed her hands against his chest. "Get off of me!"

"You don't understand," he hissed, drawing her closer, until she could feel his breath on her lips. "Shut up and _listen_. _I need to find her_. You think you know who I am? I never harmed a hair on Jessamine Kaldwin's head. I would _never_. And I am going to find who killed her, and who took Emily, and I am going to flay him alive for what he's done. Now, tell me where you saw her. You're her teacher? Good. Tell me she's okay. Tell me how to save her."

He shook her, and that momentary flare of righteous anger died down again, buried under a heavy, stifling blanket of good sense and fear and grief, the way she'd lived her life for years on end. She dropped her gaze and went pliant in his arms.

It had the intended effect. He stopped shaking her, and his grip relaxed.

She couldn't tell him where Emily was, for too many reasons. What were the chances this man was honest, maligned, not a killer at all? And what would happen when Daud realized she'd sent a trained killer - after all, what else was a bodyguard? - after him? What would happen to Geoff if Daud had taken him as insurance?

Callista began to shake with no help from Corvo. Her knees threatened to buckle. She took a deep breath, swallowed down the panic and the fatalism, and looked up.

"Do something for me first, and I'll tell you. Prove to me you keep your word. Prove to me you're a good man," she said, so softly even she could barely hear.

Corvo glowered, but murmured, "Name it."

At least he wouldn't wring it out of her.

"My uncle, Geoff Curnow, has gone missing," she said, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"I knew him," he said, softly. "He was a good man."

"_Is_. Find him and bring him home safely. Do that, and I'll tell you. I can't get you in to see her, but I can tell you where she is."

"Tell me what you know about Curnow's disappearance."

"Not much," she said. "It was recent, he was last seen four days ago. Three days ago, his partner turned up dead. Rhys Anderson."

"I'll find him," he said. Blessedly, he didn't mention how little chance there was of Geoff still being alive. "Where can I find _you_, when it's done, Miss Curnow?"

His gaze bored into her. She swallowed thickly. "I..."

She did a few quick calculations. She had nowhere to stay while Corvo worked, and couldn't risk involving her uncle in this whole mess once he was safe, at least not any more than he already appeared to be. She was dangerous, a liability. And the longer she was away, the more likely Daud would come for her - and if Corvo was true to his word, that could mean the end of any hope Emily had of returning to a normal life. If Corvo _wasn't _honest, or if he tired of her games, she was sure he would kill her just as surely as Daud could.

If she went back to the tower, to Emily and to Daud, she risked punishment. She would be imprisoned again, and Daud would close up her escape route. She wouldn't be able to hear from Corvo that Geoff was okay, let alone tell him where she was. But if she told him now, he had no reason to save her uncle.

What she wouldn't have given for a yawning pit to have opened up beneath her feet and swallowed her whole, guilt and risk and exhaustion all.

A solution came to her, thin and threadbare and liable to unravel to pieces at the slightest untoward breath of air. _The club_.

"There's a nightclub, Wolfhound, in the old Rudshore district," she said. "I'll leave a message for you there. My uncle will be able to understand it. That's how you'll find out where we are."

And if she decided, on the long walk back, that she had made a horrible mistake, bargaining with Geoff's life like this - if she decided she trusted Corvo as much as she could trust anybody - she'd simply leave it uncoded. Corvo would have his answer, or the barstaff would call in the police.

Corvo considered it a moment, then nodded, and released her at last.

"Swear to me," he said as he took a few steps away, "that you won't tell anybody you saw me."

She huffed a small, sad laugh. "Who would believe me?"

* * *

As soon as Corvo had disappeared back into the dull pulse of the city, Callista made her way unerringly to her apartment building.

Her earlier hesitation was gone, erased by the horrible sensation of Corvo's gun pressed against her spine. If Daud had ransacked the place and left it in ruins, so be it. If her landlord had already decided she was gone for good and boxed up her things, so be it. But on the off-chance that her apartment was as she had left it, she needed to get in.

Uncle Geoff had given her a handgun five years ago, and she had kept it clean and stored with ammo nearby ever since.

The entrance to her building was locked, but she slipped into one of the narrow alleys alongside it and looked for the fire escape. She'd have to climb to get to it, but trash day had been that morning - she'd seen the great trucks go rumbling by - and the dumpster was easy enough to move if she braced her whole weight against it and pushed with her legs. When it was close enough beneath the fire escape, she hauled herself onto it, and from there onto the bottom ladder of the fire escape.

She'd never climbed a fire escape before. She'd never had the need to. And she knew, even as she reached the sixth floor and the window into her apartment, that she had left that window securely bolted.

It was open.

_Daud_, she thought with an exhausted groan. Relief came a moment later. This made things easier. She got her hands through the gap between window and sill, and shoved up.

Inside, her bedroom was as she'd left it. Her bed was made, though not perfectly. Her bookshelf still overflowed just a little too much, with the bottom shelf filled with books on the sea and whaling. Her closet doors were open. There were fewer pieces of clothing in the closet, of course, and her few pairs of shoes were all, upsettingly, back in Rudshore, but it was still her closet.

Daud had taken clothing and her soaps and _her_ from this place, but he'd left it intact.

She made a quick sweep of the apartment. It was all untouched. The milk in the fridge had gone bad, but there was still a Tyvian pear, only a little soft, by the microwave. She ate it as she went back to her bedroom and knelt in front of her bookshelf.

Among the books stacked across the top of the main row of texts was a wooden case. She pulled it out, forgetting the throbbing in her feet and the aching in her head, and opened it.

There, just as she'd left it, was her gun. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Later, she'd have to go back to Rudshore, but she would go armed. She would leave a message for Corvo, and she would turn herself over to Daud, but she would do her damnedest to go back into the penthouse prison with a _plan_, with some kind of way out if things went bad. With what felt like her first real smile in a lifetime, she tucked the box beneath her bed and fell down onto her pillows and closed her eyes.

* * *

She only managed an hour of sleep, by the clock. Exhaustion tugged at her and kept her eyes heavy and her body leaden, and for a time she would drift, thoughts turning fuzzy. But then they would sharpen to needlepoints and while she fought to keep her eyes closed, her mind raced. Emily was alone with Daud, unless Daud was looking for her. She half-expected to turn her head and see Daud looming over her bed, ready to grab her and take her back.

But when she finally opened her eyes, she was alone. Maybe he still hadn't noticed that she'd left, somehow.

Maybe he didn't care.

Maybe, if she went back, she'd never find them - and Emily would be gone for good and she would be alone, injured, and adrift.

With a muttered curse, she made herself stand. Her feet protested. Her head spun.

She grabbed her gun and a jacket from her closet. The jacket had deep pockets running along the front, with internal zippers, and it was there that she slipped her pistol, safety firmly on. With a deep breath, she looked at herself in the mirror.

The woman looking back at her seemed five years older, at least. Her eyes were dull, with dark bags beneath, and her hair was frazzled and coming down from her bun. She raised her hands to fix it, but then gave up. It wasn't worth it.

She had to get back to Rudshore before it got too dark.

After one last turn around her apartment, she said goodbye to it and climbed out the window. Her feet screamed in protest as the grating pressed into her swollen flesh, but she made her way down the ladders and landings until she was back on street level.

The knowledge that she might never see home again hung heavy over her, a pall blotting out the sun.

Dunwall didn't need the help.

Ever since the Kaldwin dynasty had fallen apart, things hadn't been going well for the city. Greaves Electric had already been struggling under poor management for years, but with Kaldwin's death, it had gone bankrupt within the first six months. Sokolov Industries, meanwhile, had switched to building military and law enforcement mechanisms that sucked down too much power. There was talk of planned blackouts to conserve power for governmental initiatives, and there were checkpoints in the city and beyond, arranged by the acting Regent, Hiram Burrows. They verified papers and kept the majority of citizens restricted to particular districts. Dunwall was slowly being strangled. The whole of Gristol might soon follow.

Of course, there were no checkpoints between where she stood and Rudshore; Rudshore was a wasteland, empty and forgotten by the city, a relic of a bygone era. It had been abandoned before Jessamine Kaldwin's death. It would remain abandoned.

As Callista made her way towards the Wrenhaven and the nearest bridge, towards the penthouse and the nightclub, she thought over the message she would leave Geoff, planned it in every particular. It would have the tower's true nature in it, yes, but it would also contain apology after apology, hope after trodden-upon hope. It would be in one of the codes they'd invented together when she was a teenager sitting at his kitchen table, fond of leaving notes for him and receiving ones in turn. They gave her something physical of him to hang onto.

If Geoff was alive, he'd understand the note immediately, even if the cipher took a little longer.

As the sun began to set and clouds rolled in, dimming what light there was, the already sparse crowds thinned. People retreated into their homes, and Callista, though she tried mightily, couldn't really believe that it was only because of the chill winds that picked up. The streets she walked down were quiet, and on the lower levels of too many buildings, the windows were cracked or smashed. Trash had accumulated by the curbs and in the storm drains, along the gutters. She saw a few people lingering outside their homes, but their shoulders were hunched in, and they barely glanced at her.

Every so often, a car would rumble by - but the traffic seemed better suited to three in the morning, not an early evening.

Few of the cafes she passed were open.

After half a mile, she started to hear noises: cracks, smashes, shouts. Another block and she could make out shapes down the road. There was a mass of people, moving towards the checkpoint that would take them towards the Estate District. She slowed, and her feet protested. They were only moving under momentum now, and she was half-waiting for the moment she began to leave bloody footprints along the sidewalk.

The crowd held aloft signs she couldn't read from where she stood, shouted slogans she couldn't parse. Disconnected words reached her: corruption, bankruptcy, plague.

She stopped.

_Plague_?

There had been a few rumors in the days before Daud had taken her, of strange illnesses cropping up in the city. The University of Natural Philosophy's disease prevention department had released some kind of statement to the effect that it was only a mutation of the flu. It attacked the already weak, infants and elderly, just as it always had. They had recommended people stay home when ill, or come to them if they thought their symptoms were worsening. People had stopped using public transit, but she'd thought it was all just paranoia.

And it had only been a week, if that, since she'd last heard any news. _Plague_?

As she watched, shadows moved on the checkpoint walls. The crowd roiled and shouted. The people on the wall - police and maybe even Overseers - bellowed back.

Callista turned down a sidestreet and left before any shots could be fired. She couldn't do this right now. She couldn't do any of this.

* * *

By the time she reached Rudshore, she'd stopped five times, each longer than the last. The sun was only barely visible between the buildings. Her trek across the city and back had taken at least sixteen hours now, with only an hour's sleep in the last thirty-six, and she was exhausted. Her feet had blistered, though they hadn't begun to bleed by some miracle. Her head ached and her stomach twisted itself into knots of hunger.

Half the water fountains dotting street corners no longer worked. Her throat burned. Had they worked last week? The week before?

Grief remained the best anaesthetic she'd ever known. Her thoughts were nothing more than a dull, tangled heap, but so were the protests of her body.

When she saw the glowing sign of the club at last, she let the lights lure her onward, focusing unwaveringly on the **_D,_**and didn't stop walking until she had to crane her head up to see it. There was no bouncer at the door. _Good_. No way they'd let her in barefoot and exhausted, no doubt looking like she was strung out. She tried the door.

Locked.

Of course. The sun had only just begun to go down. It couldn't be later than five or six. The nightclub wouldn't open for another two hours, at least.

With a groan, she levered herself into a quiet alley to wait.

As she stared at the dimming sky, feet propped up on a rainspout, head leaned against the brick wall beside her, she lost track of time. It seemed like only a few minutes ago that she'd dared to try the door to Daud's office, that she'd seen what she'd thought was a blessing. She had _known_ she had to go forward, take the chance, seize the moment for once in her life. But what had happened when Daud had come to and realized his keycard was gone, the elevator closed? What had happened when Emily had gone to the classroom for lessons, and found it empty?

It had seemed like the right decision. It had seemed like a perfect chance.

She could still feel the shadow of Corvo's gun against her spine. What if she'd screamed, and he'd killed her?

Would it have been better than... this?

The sky went purple, then black, and the stars and moon were covered up by the heavy, dark clouds. At least she wouldn't be out in this storm. She'd be dead or in the penthouse again by the time it hit.

The gun rested, leaden, against her ribs. She distantly stroked at its outline.

An image flitted through her thoughts, of being curled up in her own apartment. She could have stayed there, if she'd been willing to give up. Maybe she could have found a way to get money again. Maybe Daud would have taken a day, a week, a month to loom up in her window. Maybe she could have pretended for a little bit that things were okay.

Still, she had one last act of rebellion to make.

If she drifted, she didn't sleep long. Soon enough she was standing again, making herself wobble unsteadily towards the club. There still wasn't a bouncer, but now she could feel the bass through her swollen feet. She watched as two people drifted to the door, opened it, let out a flood of noise onto the street.

She went inside.

It was dark, lit in flashing shades of orange and red and purple like a flaming sunset. There were already throngs of people on the dancefloor, though where they'd come from she couldn't have guessed. Over their heads she could see a great long bar, topped by sparkling stained glass. The music filling the air was all beat and rhythm, and it tried to steal her breath and heartbeat, replace it with its own.

Slowly, careful not to put her feet in the path of any dancers, she edged around the crowd and moved towards the bar. Only half the seats arrayed around it were occupied, and she could see as she got closer the shining, dark Pandyssian hardwood of the bar, the glittering mirrors behind. It was worlds apart from the protest at the checkpoint. It was worlds apart from everything she'd known.

The small hairs on the backs of her arms prickled and rose, as if she were being watched. She turned on instinct, unwilling even in her exhaustion to be taken by surprise again. There, slinking towards her alongside the mass of bodies on the dancefloor, was Daud.

_No_.

She glanced around her. There was no fast path to the bar, and she wouldn't put it past him to grab her even in a public place. The bus had been only five blocks away, after all, when he'd slammed his elbow into her chest, dragged her away.

"Welcome back, Callista Curnow," Daud said, suddenly too close to run from.

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her close, ignoring how she pressed her hands to his chest to keep her distance. She could smell his breath, all whiskey and tobacco, and she turned her head slightly to avoid his gaze. He had another of his perfect suits on, along with his trademark gloves. The beat throbbed slow and steady around them. She didn't move with it.

_No_, she thought, numbly. _No, no, I just needed another five minutes_-

And then another thought, more immediate, struck her. Could he feel her gun? He hadn't acknowledged it, if he could. She shifted against him, and felt it bump against her belly, safely above the level of his arm.

_Good_. She pushed against his chest harder, keeping that distance between them.

"You shouldn't get much closer to the bar, Miss Curnow," he said, close enough that her skin tensed and crawled, and she bent her head away from him, shivering. Her nerves flared to life again, _all_ of them, and everywhere he touched shuddered and jumped. He eased them into the swell and push of bodies, and she found herself mirroring his motions, too unsteady to remain unresisting.

Daud continued, keeping his lips close to her ear, keeping her unbalanced. "There are some things you should know, before we go back upstairs."

She turned her head just enough to see that he was smiling.

"You're surprised that I'm not angry," he said as she stared at him. He pulled against her waist, moved her into a slow roll against him, in time with the beat and the bodies around them. She let him, even as she jerked her hip to one side to get the bit of her coat with her gun out from between them. It hung, dangerously, at her side- but he still hadn't noticed. Her body fit against his and her fingers curled into the front of his suit jacket.

"You're a very clever girl," Daud continued. "I'm amazed you got out. I'm even more amazed you came _back_. So let me tell you a few things about your situation."

Daud turned them, just enough that she could see the bar over his shoulder.

"See the man in the fine camel suit, with the long face and the narrow chin? The one with rings on all his fingers?" he murmured, and while she could hear the predatory grin in his voice, there was something gentle there, too - directed at her. "That's Treavor Pendleton. Family is rich as rich can be, and his brothers are in the higher levels of the government. He owns the nightclub, as well as several other buildings in Rudshore. Including our little tower, to my understanding."

His lips ghosted against the shell of her ear, and she was caught between a flinch and a shudder. Her head spun. He was dangerous, so dangerous, but since that first day, he had never laid a hand on her. He'd only used violence to _get_ her there, and to defend himself.

She didn't trust him. But she moved alongside him all the same.

"Then there's the man slightly behind him. Big, broad fellow. Older. Small head, linebacker shoulders. Look at his posture - he's ex-military. _High up_ ex-military. That's former admiral Farley Havelock. He's a close associate of Pendleton's. He's a thinker, a planner, and he can bring the muscle - both his own and that of a lot of old buddies."

Daud's arm never left its place against her back, but he raised his other hand and found the pins holding her hair up. He wiggled them free piece by piece, tossing each onto the floor where they were lost in the shuffle of feet. Finally, he pulled the swan comb free, and slipped it into his pocket.

The loss went straight to her tired heart. "Why-"

"Because the man just a few seats down the bar, looking this way, is one Overseer Teague Martin, here on his off-time," Daud said, and she caught a glimpse of the man before he maneuvered her out of his line of sight, her back to the bar again. "He's the brains of the operation. Has a great black book with a thousand secrets in it, about everybody in the city. He's second - in wickedness, anyway - only to the High Overseer himself, but they don't see eye-to-eye. And he has your picture, because he ordered me to take you back at the start."

Daud pulled his head back just a little, just enough so she could see his smirk.

Her brow furrowed. "You? Being ordered?"

He chuckled, a deep rumble in his barrel chest. "Yes, what must he have on me that I would do such a thing?" He leaned back in, respecting the space she had put between their bodies even as he bent his head to her ear again. "He's a dangerous man, Callista Curnow, and you are very lucky I haven't told him about your little constitutional."

"Will you?" she asked, trying to remember to breathe. Between the heat of his body and the chill of his words, her thoughts didn't know which way to go. She could imagine torture, misery, Uncle Geoff rotting in a cellar somewhere-

"That depends," Daud murmured. "Are you with me?"

She looked at him.

He held her stare. "Because," he added, "I could use a clever ally. I'm a bit low on them these days."

_Ally_.

She was too tired, too numb to laugh in his face, or demand he tell her what had happened to her uncle. The beat was stirring her wandering thoughts, leaving her with nothing but exhaustion. An ally sounded good. An ally sounded unbelievably good.

"Listen," he said, pulling her closer, flat up against his body. The solidity of him was reassuring. She found her hands sliding from his chest up and over his shoulders. "I'll tell you a little secret. In return, you're loyal to _me_ as long as you're here - not any of the idiots by the bar."

She stared at where her body melted against his. "I understand," she whispered, because what other choice could she make? She couldn't leave a note for Corvo here, not if Daud was being honest and the people in charge of this place were the reason Emily was locked in the tower to begin with.

Daud's free hand shifted from where it had settled on her hip to tip her chin up.

He met her gaze. Lights bloomed like stars behind him. One by one, they flickered and died. The song ended. The club was dark. She felt him lean in, whisper against her lips with a curling breath of pure heat:

"I killed Jessamine Kaldwin."

The words echoed through her, winding through her muddled thoughts and into her hammering heart, and she closed her eyes against the sudden dark of the club. She turned the words over, rearranged them, changed the intonation a hundred times.

She found no way to doubt him. She found no reason to be surprised.

Corvo Attano had told the truth, then. She bowed her head with a mumbled _shit_, because if Daud was telling the truth about the three men at the bar, she'd just led an innocent man into this mess. In the very next moment, though, she couldn't care. He'd only come if Geoff was alive. He wouldn't be stupid enough to bring her uncle along. Things would be okay, at least for her. In a manner of speaking.

Another song picked up, but Daud didn't make her dance this time around. Instead, he led her away from the bar, towards the door. "Think of it like this, Miss Curnow," he said, and it took her a few seconds to realize what he was talking about. "Now, if you manage to get out again, you could always turn me in to the police."

_Police_.

She went very, very still, and refused to move another step. Daud had let go of all of her except her elbow, and now he gave her a firm tug.

Moving seemed an impossibility. There was always the chance of a stray word or scent or sight letting all her grief back in, but she'd hoped to make it back to the penthouse, at least. She'd weathered the thought about Geoff, alive but not at this club, and- and-

She crumpled in on herself.

With a muttered curse, Daud stepped forward and scooped her up into his arms. It was only then that he saw her feet, and cursed again, louder this time.

"_Idiot_," he muttered as he turned sideways and began edging his way towards the door. "How far did you go today?"

"Home and back," she mumbled, rotating one swollen ankle. "No bus fare."

He called her a few other choice names, then shouldered his way out the door and into the night, now damp and electric from the coming storm. She fought to keep her head up and to not lean against him, but it was hard work, and she found herself looping her arms around his neck to keep herself stable.

Her gun hung on her other side.

_Still safe_, she thought, distantly.

Daud stared straight ahead as he made his way unfaltering back to the tower.

"Where's my uncle?" she asked after a moment. _Just finish it. Put the torch to his memory, if he's gone already_. Hope was horrifically dangerous, and she'd been foolish to do more than take actions to save him if he really was alive.

His brow furrowed, but his steps didn't falter. "I hadn't heard of anything happening to him."

"Tell me what you did to him," she pushed.

"_I_ didn't do anything to him," he said.

"Then who did?"

"Your uncle had a fair number of enemies. I looked into them. I had to make sure you were... unattached. That nobody but him would miss you if you were gone, and that nobody would triumph."

There should have been angry tears at that. Tears at not having an answer, at how matter-of-fact he was, at how he was right that nobody would miss her. _That_ was why she'd been chosen, when there were a hundred better teachers, a hundred people that could have been bribed or bought in other ways.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

She believed him. Frowning, she went back over the last week. Had he, even once, lied to her? No, not that she could remember. He was honest, after a fashion, and called himself her ally, but was still her captor. She sorted every detail that she knew of him.

"You didn't have anything to do with his disappearance. Or his partner dying," she said after a moment, surprised.

"His-" he said, brow furrowing in confusion, before he snorted in what might have been relief- or amusement. "Ah. Anderson. Yes, correct." They had reached the door to the tower, and he shuffled her in his arms, managing to get a grip on the door handle and nudging it open with his foot.

"Because if it'd been you," she thought aloud, "he'd just be dead. It would be finished. He wouldn't be _gone_ with rumors of extortion and embezzlement and... you wouldn't have destroyed his life. Just ended it." She looked up to his face. "It really wasn't you."

Daud slowed as they reached the elevator. He didn't meet her gaze, instead frowning at the dingy metal of the elevator doors as they rolled open. "No, it wasn't," he said. He stepped inside the elevator and shifted her again, resettling her weight.

She watched each flare of light as they passed another floor.

"Emily is going to be very cross with you," Daud said after a moment. "I'd lock your door tonight."

"Why? Will she put chicken salad in my bed?" She turned to look at him again. "Is that what she does to you?"

He glanced down at her. "If I'd left my door unlocked where she could find me, I'd have gotten a lot worse."

Silence fell over them again as the elevator door opened silently and Daud stepped into his office. He managed the latch on his office door with one hand, and again toed it open, then carried her through the dimly lit first floor, up the stairs, and down the hall to the bathroom, where he set her down on the closed lid of the toilet and began to run a bath. The tub was clawfooted and large, the kind she'd dreamed about as a child, but now she only cared about the heat of the water.

"I'll get the first aid kit out," he said, "and leave it by the door for when you're ready. You should bandage the worst of those blisters if you're going to hobble to bed by yourself. I take it you can undress yourself?"

She was too tired to blush. "Yes."

"And I also assume you haven't eaten?"

"Correct."

"I'll leave a meal in your room. We'll talk more in the morning."

"The comb-"

"I'll leave it on your dresser."

Callista nodded. Daud turned off the tap, then left the room, shutting the door behind him. Slowly, she began the work of stripping off her jacket and blouse and bra, then, grimacing, levered herself up and worked down her skirt and underwear. With a few hopping steps, she made it over to the bath. Now that she'd been off her feet enough, they screamed in protest at each step.

With a little work, she sank into the steaming hot bath, and immediately submerged herself until only her face was above water. She closed her eyes and let herself float.

Her ears below the water, she could only hear the murmuring of her pulse, the whisper of blood in her veins, and the intermittent _tap_ of water dripping from the faucet. Distantly, she might have heard footsteps. The world contracted to warmth and weightlessness.

As a girl, she'd spent a few weeks every summer at her grandparents' house near Whitecliff. The limestone cliffs had dominated the skyline, but there were beaches, too, and coves, covered in smooth black stones. She and her brother had danced on them, heedless of their parents cries that they would fall. She'd only broken her arm once in all the years they played there.

Some years, it was warm enough to wade into the water, and to jump as the swells of waves pushed in towards the shore. She'd let them buoy her up. The water had been warm by Whitecliff standards, but it was a far cry from the soporific pool that now embraced her, keeping the pangs of loss away. She could think about her grandparents here, and her parents too, and even her brother. It was as if they were still just down the hall.

_Knu-ulp _went something, faint and strange and easy ignored.

She dropped fully beneath the surface for a moment, blowing bubbles from her nose and mouth, hair fanning all around her, remembering diving under waves as they came crashing down and surfacing with her arms out, a mermaid in the surf.

_Knu-ulp_ went something, this time louder and stranger still.

Callista opened her eyes.

Through the wavering wall of water above her, the world seemed stained and running, as if it were made from watercolors. A shadow hovered somewhere behind her. With a jolt, she sat up, water sloshing over the sides of the tub.

It fell up towards the ceiling. A drop of water left the surface of the bath and fell into the faucet.

She opened her mouth to scream, but all the sound in the room seemed to disappear without a trace. There was no rush of air, no roar of waves, only unbroken silence as Callista clambered out of the bath, staggered into the corner blocked off by the tub. She slipped on the tile and slid down against the wall.

By the door, she could see a shadow. In the mirror-

She shut her eyes.

There had been a young man in the mirror, with dark eyes and pale skin, and he'd been watching her with a tiny smile. She couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear it and she shook, uncontrollably, and from her eyes poured all the tears she hadn't let herself cry over her feet, over Geoff, over the pit her life had descended into.

She sobbed, and heard the tears trickle against the molding where the walls met the ceiling.

The next thing she knew, she felt leather on her skin, strong hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her. She heard her name and shook her head, refusing to open her eyes. She was cold, shivering, and at last the hands released her, only to drape a towel around her shoulders.

Whoever it was hissed curses, muttered to himself, snarled at the cold around her even as he rubbed her arms and tried to bring her back. Everything seemed so very muffled, even his touch as he dragged her into his arms, lifted her. Distantly, she heard the sound of water flowing down a drain. A door opened. Her bed received her with its thick blankets and its darkness, and she curled into it.

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_Dust After Rain_ began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here are the prompts for Chapter 3!

_Something about eyeing a passing rat in the gutter; his fingers bumped up the knobs of her spine; a bit about the day being unreasonably warm and sunny outside; lights bloomed like stars behind him. One by one, they flickered and died, except one; something about the small hairs on the back of her arms rising from his nearness._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 4**_

Bright sunlight streamed in through the window by Callista's bed, and she groaned, rolling over onto her stomach and burrowing down into her pillows. Cracking an eye open in exhausted protest, she made out the floor at a slant, and a tray peeking out past the edge of her bed, set on the floor near her. There was big glass of water and a pitcher beside it, and some... soup? It looked cold and unappetizing. She closed her eye again.

Tendrils of sleep reached for her again, but with them came the vague memory of a nightmare, of hollow eyes staring at her, of water curling around her throat to choke her. She scowled. All she wanted was to sleep, to sleep and to forget...

_Oh_.

She was back in the penthouse. Daud had carried her here. He had killed the Empress, but he had been gentle with _her_, as much as he could be. She wiggled her toes. They were wrapped in smooth, clean bandages.

Slowly, she pushed herself up and shoved her blankets down, squinting against the sunlight and shaking her head to clear the sleep from it. She didn't want to go back to that nightmare - she had her own to deal with here.

As she sat up, the towel wrapped haphazardly around her, skewed from sleep, slipped down. Callista started, then reached for it, pulling it back up over her chest. She was naked underneath it, except for the bandages on her feet. Curling her fingers into the terry, she tried to remember the night before in more detail. Daud had carried her into the elevator, up the stairs, and into the bathroom. He'd promised to come back with food. She'd gotten into the bath he'd run for her, and...

Hollow eyes had watched her.

"Must've fallen asleep," she mumbled to herself. Her hair was a mess, clinging in awkward whorls to her shoulders. She'd fallen asleep, that was all, and Daud had found her before she'd drowned, and like a gentleman he'd bundled her up and put her to bed.

Which meant, logically, that he'd also gotten a good look at her knobby, awkward body, but there wasn't much she could do about it except cover it up again. With a deep breath, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand.

Pain flashed up her legs, digging barbed hooks into her calves and dragging down until she was sure her feet were only ragged tatters of flesh. The agony was in her skin and muscle and bones, and her nerves screamed, torn and frayed.

She sat down again immediately, and tried to remember how to breathe.

It hadn't hurt so much the day before, she was sure of it. Had he lanced the blisters? She thought she might remember that. Biting her lip, she made herself stand again, hobbling on the outsides of her feet over to her closet. Leaning heavily on the handle, she pulled the door open, and grabbed at the first thing to catch her eye: a tawny dress that wouldn't require her to maneuver her swollen feet through pantslegs. Good.

The next fifteen minutes were a balancing act of pain against determination, but she managed to dress herself with only two close calls of falling over, and only five whimpered cries or swears. Nobody came to check on her, and she counted that as a blessing.

Sinking down onto the edge of her bed again, she stared at the door. Through it was a girl who needed her, at least for company. And she'd abandoned that girl without a word. What had Daud told her? What had Emily assumed? She glanced to her dresser. There was the swan comb. That, at least, she hadn't messed up.

Beside it was her gun.

_Shit_.

There was a piece of paper by it, but she couldn't bring herself to stand, not with the crushing weight of failure bearing down on her. Daud knew she'd come back into his prison armed. Her uncle was either dead or about to be found by Corvo Attano. Corvo Attano, wrongfully accused and now desperate to find Emily, about to walk straight into the headquarters of the people who had organized her kidnapping, and possibly the murder of Jessamine Kaldwin herself. There was a plague growing out there (though that, at least, couldn't be blamed on _her_), and she didn't know now if Daud was her enemy, or something closer to a friend.

And she couldn't stand for more than a few seconds without all rational thought being eclipsed by agony.

Glumly, she bent and picked up the tray Daud had left her. The soup was long cold and had an oily film across the top, so she started with the water, drinking two glasses and pouring a third. Then she gave the soup an experimental sip.

It wasn't _horrible_.

Her stomach growled, and she finished the bowl with a few more long sips. She washed it down with water. She stared at the door again.

Eventually, she heard footsteps. They were light and out of rhythm, or seemed to be until she realized that they belonged to Emily, skipping down the hall. With a groan, she made herself stand and hobble to the door. After a moment's thought, she reached over to the dresser and grabbed up her pistol, shoving it in the top drawer, then turned back to the door.

By the time she got it open and maneuvered herself out into the hall, Emily was almost all the way back to her room.

"Emily?"

The girl trotted to a halt, but didn't turn around.

"I have your comb for you," Callista said, supporting her weight on the side of the less painful foot and on the doorknob. "It's safe."

"Daud told me you were sick," Emily said, "but I checked your room and you were gone. He said he was keeping you in his room, so the doctor could see you. But when I was sick a few months ago, I had to stay in my own room, so I _know_ he was lying. You left, didn't you?"

"... Yes," Callista admitted, fighting the urge to look down at the carpet.

"Without me," Emily said.

"I didn't have much of a choice."

Emily looked over her shoulder, just enough that Callista could see she was fighting not to cry. "Of course you did! I was ready! You could have woken me up and I would have jumped into my shoes and we could have _gone_."

"I didn't have time to get shoes for _me_, Emily," Callista said. "And it didn't matter. I'm back now."

Emily bit her lip, then turned away again and bolted for her door. Callista couldn't follow.

"I wish Daud _had_ killed you!" Emily shouted, before slamming the door closed.

Callista edged her own door shut, then hobbled towards the stairs.

Daud was sitting by one of the great windows, a lit cigarette in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She eyed him warily as she levered herself along the banister, breathing raggedly. He didn't look up.

"Quite the racket up there," he said, taking a drag.

"You shouldn't smoke in here." Callista reached the main floor, and took a moment to look around the room. Should she try for the kitchen? Ask Daud to make her toast, tea? She entertained the idea for only a few seconds before she set off towards Daud himself, lurching across the carpet.

"I heard what she said," Daud commented, idly, smoke curling from his lips and nose. His gaze remained focused on whatever he was reading, or pretending to read. "She'll get over it, though. She was very worked up yesterday. Broke several glasses. She thought I'd killed you. She doesn't believe me when I tell her those days are over."

Callista reached his chair and leaned heavily on the arm of it. Wordlessly, she reached out and plucked the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her own lips. Geoff would be furious if he knew, but he never would. She inhaled with an inward groan, smoke sliding down her throat, then exhaled with only a half-cough, before passing the stub back to him.

_Now_ he looked at her. She met his gaze. His gloved fingers brushed hers as he retrieved his vice.

"Do_ you _believe me?" he asked, tapping ash onto the carpet before he stuck the cig back between his lips and folded the newspaper.

She considered. "Yes. You haven't lied to me."

"As far as you know," he said.

"You also left me my gun."

He chuckled. "I did. Consider it a gesture of trust." A few more puffs and he leaned forward, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray that seemed suspiciously clean. "That's the first time I've seen you smoke," he added, conversationally. "And I watched you for some time. If I'd have known..."

"You'd have kept me away from Emily?"

"Hardly. I'd have stashed a pack somewhere in your room."

"I only borrow from people. I never buy my own," she said. If she didn't buy her own, it would never be a habit. She shrugged. "And it's- been a while."

He braced his hands on his knees and looked up at her. "You're a lot more put together than I expected."

Callista glanced away at that. "I have practice," she said. Practice, and too little room. There was nowhere in her life that she could carve out the space necessary to fall apart.

"Mm." He rose with a rustle of fabric, then nodded to his chair. "Sit down and get your feet up. I'll get you breakfast. I'm willing to wager Emily's not going to show up for any lessons today."

* * *

Daud spent much of the afternoon in his office, or alone with his thoughts by the window, and Callista contented herself with dozing in the sun and reading the newspaper he'd left behind. At one point, a book had appeared next to the chair. It was a semi-autobiographical novel about a whaler's life at sea. Daud must have left it during one of her naps. She managed a few chapters of it before he came in to change her bandages. He eased the gauze up and she was reduced to clutching at its binding until it creaked and groaned, in order to keep from crying out.

"You could've gotten shoes," he said. "I was out cold."

She didn't say anything past her clenched teeth, even though she wanted to ask why he'd been drinking - and why he kept his gloves on even now, smearing antibiotic ointment over her scrapes and blisters.

They were on dinner and a second set of bandages by the time Emily crept down the stairs. Callista saw her first, but pretended not to, spearing another piece of baked hagfish with her fork. She remembered very well being only a little older and being furious, so furious, that her mother had come home from the hospital alright. She'd been ready for the worst, even then. She'd made peace with the idea of it (or, at least, she'd thought she had).

But she'd also been so gloriously happy that her mother was still alive, and she'd wanted to spend every waking hour with her. The contrast had made her feel like she was being torn in two. She wanted to hug her mother just as soon as beat her tiny fists against her chest and scream.

And then her mother had tried to hug her and she _had_ screamed and beat her tiny fists against her chest, and she'd hidden in her room for half a day without making a sound.

Little feet padded along the carpet, then slapped against the tile of the kitchen floor. One of the cabinets creaked open. Plates slid over plates. Silverware rattled in its drawer. Soon, the little feet came closer. Emily pulled out her chair at the table and sat down, setting her plate and fork and knife and spoon out in perfect arrangement.

Callista did the honors of serving her, and they all ate in awkward silence, a twisted little family.

Daud was clearing the plates when Emily kicked her legs particularly hard beneath the table, frowning down at her lap. "Are... your feet feeling any better?" she asked.

"A little," Callista said.

"Where did you go?"

"I walked to my apartment. It's across the river from here."

Emily wrinkled her nose. "That's a long way."

"Seven and a quarter miles," Daud provided, "if you go the shortest route."

"Which means I walked at least fourteen and a half miles," she said, and Emily came very close to sticking out her tongue. She did that whenever even the most basic sums were mentioned. It made Callista smile. "Probably more. And very slowly, because I didn't take my shoes."

"What did you do? Out there?"

Callista fussed with a smudge on the tabletop. "I called my uncle, or tried to. He was... otherwise occupied."

"Were you scared?"

Daud ran the garbage disposal as if to say _I'm still here, girl_.

Emily continued on anyway. "Is that why you came back?"

"I... was really just tired," she said. "And I didn't have my keys, so I couldn't go home and take a nap. So I came back here, instead."

Emily scowled. "So you're just as trapped as me. Even more. Because if _I_ got out, I wouldn't come back. I don't know why you did. You shouldn't have."

"But you were here. And I had to give your comb back."

"That's a stupid reason!" A quick glance showed she was probably close to tears.

Callista's hands curled in her lap. "I know," she said, "but sometimes adults do very stupid things."

"I hate it here," Emily muttered, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Callista glanced at Daud, but he wasn't looking at them. Instead he quietly loaded the drying rack with hand-washed dishes and dried off his gloves. When he finished, he left in the direction of his office. Emily managed to hold back her tears until his door was firmly shut again.

Then the girl curled in on herself. Her shoulders beginning to twitch, then shake, then heave. Callista looked away, worrying at her lip. She could imagine trying to comfort Emily, only to be screamed at, pushed away, fought.

Her hesitation only lasted through the first gasping sob, and then Callista reached over, settling a hand on Emily's head and gently stroking her hair. She scooted her chair closer, until the girl could fall against her and she could wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm back," Callista murmured. "Shh, I'm here. I'm alive. I'm here with you."

Emily answered with a hitched whine, then pressed her face hard to Callista's shoulder, as if that would hide her tears. Callista closed her eyes and continued to stroke her hair. How often did Emily let herself cry? Probably not very. She was so strong, and so determined to be mature, in charge, in control.

"Next time I leave, I'm leaving with you. I swear. But if we'd gone together this time, we'd have come back together. I don't have anywhere to take you."

Emily whimpered and stamped her foot against the seat of her chair.

Callista bit her lip again. She wanted to get the girl upstairs, curled up in her room, as far away from Daud as they could both manage, but even if her feet hadn't been wrecked, she wasn't sure she would have been able to carry her all the way up the stairs.

"Tell me what you need me to do," Callista said. She was a tutor, not a nanny. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't think of what she'd have wanted, and even if she had - they were two different people.

A wet snuffle came from Emily. "I don't know," she mumbled. "Why'd you have to go away? Why'd you have to _leave_ me? I was... I thought maybe... you stood up to him for me, and he'd killed you. I thought you were in a ditch somewhere, and nobody would ever know, and-" she faded off with another sob.

Callista rubbed her shoulder. "He wouldn't kill me," she said.

"He killed my _mom_," Emily hissed. "And what are you to an empress?"

The words went like a lance through her heart, and she grimaced. "Somebody so unimportant he wouldn't see the need," she murmured. "But he also says he's stopped killing. And I believe him."

"_Why_?"

"Because he's never lied to me. He's been cruel and angry and dangerous but he's never lied. Has he lied to you?"

"Of course he has," she said. "I... he has. I _know_ he has."

_He hasn't_. No, he wouldn't hide things from her. He wouldn't even tell her the white lies that kept childhood bright and happy. That people went away, instead of rotting in the ground or burning in the crematoria. That the world was fair, instead of wretched and grasping and dangerous.

"Shhh," Callista murmured again, and Emily finally wrapped her arms around her.

Callista held her until the crying stopped.

* * *

The next morning, Callista woke up to breakfast on a tray, with instructions from Daud to not bother coming down the stairs, as he wouldn't be changing her bandages again.

She ate and dressed and went to meet Emily in the classroom. She was already there, doodling on the blackboard. Before they started lessons, Callista penned a brief shopping list, complete with paints, and handed it to Emily.

"Would you please take this downstairs and leave it on the kitchen island?"

Emily peered at it for a moment, then nodded, trotting out of the room without a word.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, except that Emily was attentive (even while drawing) and Daud didn't stay with them over lunch. They made their way through Morley's geography and major cities and resources, to the properties of circles and triangles, all the way to fine Serkonan verse. Emily came over to the table a few times, sitting and listening, but invariably returned to her board.

This time, she was drawing a picture of a tower. At first, Callista thought it was the penthouse. But when she drew a happy sun, and three people on the balcony, one of them very small, Callista realized it was probably the tower of the Empress.

Dinner was late in coming, but Emily, on an exploration downstairs, found a note from Daud saying that it would be ready around seven. They worked up until six-thirty somehow, and mostly at Emily's insistence. Only then did Callista hobble back to her room - her feet were healing, but it still wasn't a comfortable walk and she wished she'd thought to put _crutches_ on the shopping list - hoping to catch a few minutes' rest before another awkward meal.

Stretched out on her bed was a brilliant blue sundress.

A quick check revealed that it was her size, but Daud had handled enough of her clothing to know that. She considered a moment, then sighed and changed into it, wriggling into the fine cotton. It was elasticized across the back, and hung in pleats from her waist. The neckline wasn't too low, and she realized with a small smile that it had pockets.

Then the smile froze.

Had he _intended_ to get her a dress with pockets? If so, how did he know that was one of her favorite things? With a groan, she sank onto her bed and looked at her feet.

They had to have another talk, about what, exactly, was going on. She needed more details about their predicament - _and_ him. The note he'd left with her gun had said only that she was allowed to keep it, and that she had good taste in weaponry. Whatever she'd feared his response would be, it hadn't been _that_.

A few minutes before seven, she heard Emily's door open and close, and so she levered herself up to follow her. It took a bit of doing, but soon enough she reached the bottom landing.

Daud looked up from where he was setting out cartons of take-out on the table, beside a stack of plates. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch before he looked away. Emily was nowhere to be seen.

"This is from you, I take it?" she asked as she limped to the table.

"It was on _your_ list," he returned, sticking a fork into a box of Serkonan roast pork.

"I didn't put it there," she said. "I-"

_Oh_.

"Emily wanted me to have a blue dress," she said, wonder washing over her. "She said if she couldn't have paint..."

"There's paint in the classroom. Construction paper, too. And some other materials."

Callista looked up at him. Daud met her gaze this time, as if daring her to argue.

"And what made you change your mind?"

He pushed a box of spiced jellyfish towards her and handed her a plate. She took it and spooned some onto her dish. "A lot of things," he said. And left it at that, glancing behind her.

She turned and followed his gaze. Emily was descending the stairs in state, just as a young empress should. With each step, she swung out her leg with a pointed, stocking-clad foot. When she realized she was being watched, she quickly reverted to just a slow downward climb.

"Emily," Callista said, "did you add something to the shopping list today?"

Emily paused a moment, then grinned and jumped down the last few steps, running over to Callista's seat, a child again for just a moment. "He got it! He really got it!" She looked over at Daud. "I thought you said there were _rules_, huh?"

"There are," Daud said, then took a large enough bite of pork that he couldn't be expected to respond again.

Emily grabbed Callista's hands and tugged her up from her chair. Ignoring how sore her feet still were, Callista let her. "Oh, it's so pretty!" Emily said, plucking at the fabric of the skirt. "I was right. You look good in blue. Well, now I'll have to take the comb back, you know. That was the deal."

"It's on my dresser," Callista said, smiling. Emily's excitement was infectious. How much of it was from the break in routine of seeing blue in her world of white and black, and how much of it was from being able to demand something, and have it happen, Callista couldn't guess. It was a momentous occasion, though.

They had _control_, the two of them, at least an inch of it.

"You should sit down, eat your dinner," Callista said, and Emily stuck out her tongue.

"Don't want to."

"I'm not cooking for you later tonight," Callista warned.

"Neither am I," Daud said, watching both of them with a quirked brow.

Emily considered a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose I can eat," she said, ceding ground as if she'd intended to all along. She slipped into her chair, and Callista got off her feet again. Daud nudged a box of takeout towards Emily, and the girl leaned forward and began to heap noodles and jellyfish and pork onto her plate.

"He also brought a present for you," Callista said after a moment of prodding at her food.

Emily glanced up. "I don't want any presents from _him_."

"You don't seem to have a problem eating my _food_," Daud commented, then took another larger than necessary bite of pork as she glared and wrinkled her nose at him.

"Well," Callista said, wanting to bodily get between the two, "think of it as a present from me that he bought."

Emily considered a moment, took a small bite, chewed and swallowed. "Is it a gun?"

"No," Callista said, quickly. Daud didn't say anything.

"Is it a book about guns?"

"_No_."

"I can get her a book about guns," Daud said. "I'll put it on the list."

"_Absolutely not_," Callista said, turning to glare at him. Her expression quickly turned to one of pleading. If he'd been anybody else, she would have mouthed, _What are you thinking_?

He looked back at her levelly, chewing another bite of food.

"I want a book about guns," Emily said.

"Then you'll have one," Daud said, then picked up his plate and fork and stood. "Besides, Miss Curnow has some experience, from what I understand."

Emily turned a wide-eyed gaze on her that quickly narrowed. "You told me you didn't know anything about guns!"

Callista glared at Daud's back as he retreated to his office and firmly shut the door behind him.

* * *

The next day, there were feathers scattered all across the classroom table and Emily had drawn and painted no fewer than ten pictures that were now taped up around the room. Her clothing was somehow still immaculate, but her hands and cheek were streaked with paint. Callista looked on, quietly thankful that she hadn't told her whirlwind of color about the glitter Daud had bought them, too.

Maybe in a few weeks, when _this_ explosion of artistry was out of her system.

_A few weeks_. It hadn't taken her long to resign herself to her fate after she'd come back to the tower. Some of it was resignation, but some of it - a disturbing amount of it - was because as the days passed, it all got easier. Daud spoke with the both of them as if he was only their guard, not their captor, and Emily had warmed to her considerably.

She'd remain here until whatever was going to happen happened. She'd teach Emily and try to puzzle out Daud or get him to talk about more serious things, catch him _alone _if she had to, and she'd hope that Geoff was alright and Corvo was alright and that, when this was all over, she'd be able to go home.

That didn't mean it felt comfortable, at night when she waited for sleep to take her, or during the day when her thoughts wandered. It downright _hurt_ then. But the rest of the time, she'd been able to settle with the relative ease into the comfort of the penthouse's routine. There was food and a soft bed and since the first day, there had been no more threats of violence. Since her return, Daud hadn't once tried to intimidate her.

It was all very sustainable, she realized with a surge of emotion that knotted back on itself.

"Is that a cat?" Callista asked, peeking over Emily's shoulder.

Emily nodded. "Mmhmm. Back when..." She trailed off, brow furrowing as she tried to figure out what she wanted to say. "I wasn't always in this apartment," she said at last. "Originally, Daud took me to this room, I don't know where it was, but out the window I could see this big poster. It had a golden cat on it. We only stayed there for maybe a week but it was bad because Daud was always there, and..."

And he had just killed her mother.

Callista reached out to settle a hand on Emily's shoulder, then hesitated. Before she had to make a decision, there was a knock on the doorframe.

Daud stood adjusting his gloves, not looking at either of them. "Miss Curnow, I need you to come with me."

Callista's hand went protectively to her own throat instead of Emily's shoulder. "I... what for?"

"We'll discuss it in private." He looked up at her. His gaze was distant, his brow slightly furrowed. Whatever his reason, it didn't look pleasant. Callista swallowed.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of me," Emily said, scowling as she clambered out of her chair.

Daud only shook his head, his eyes never leaving Callista. "Miss Curnow."

"Right," she said. _Sustainable. Comfortable._ She grimaced and took a few steps towards him.

"No!" Emily said, rushing to get between them. "I order you to talk to her in front of me!"

"There won't be any talking, Miss Emily," Daud growled, and Callista saw her flinch.

"It's okay, Emily," she said. "I'll be back. Right?"

Daud didn't answer. Callista felt her hands begin to shake and clenched them into fists.

"_Right_?"

"I can't guarantee that. Come on."

"_No_!" Emily shouted, and ran at Daud, small fists ready to strike him. Daud grimaced and caught her as soon as she got within range, dragging her up off the ground, with her back against his chest and her arms pinned to her sides. She kicked and screamed and Callista only watched, dumbfounded, as Daud hauled her down the hall to her room. He opened the door and tossed her inside, like a discarded toy, then slammed the door shut and withdrew a key from his pocket. The door rattled in its frame. Emily shouted. The key turned in the lock.

He looked back at Callista.

"I trust you'll be more cooperative?" he asked, quietly.

"That was uncalled for," she said when she could get her throat to work again. "Let her out."

"And have her kicking and biting at me until I get to my office with you? No. I'll let her out once you're back, or I know you're not coming back."

"What's going on, Daud?"

He looked her up and down, wearily. "Go change," he said.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing the blue sundress again, at Emily's insistence. With a glance back up at him, she shook her head. "Why?"

"Because," Daud said with what seemed like a silent sigh, crossing the space between them and taking her by the upper arm, "Martin wants to see you. And it's _his_ rules we follow up here."

Callista searched his face for any sign of a lie. _None_. She shook her head again. "Brown's just as much against the rules."

"Go change, Miss Curnow. I don't want to have to do that for you. I would also like you to come back from that meeting."

"Why did he say he wants to see me?"

"He didn't give a reason. Go. Change." He gave her a little shove towards her own door, letting go of her arm. "I'll be waiting out here. Don't be long."

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_Dust After Rain_ began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here's the prompt for Chapter 4!

_There were feathers scattered across her desk._


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 5**_

Daud met her by the stairs. Halfway down, he pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket and offered them to her. When she didn't take them, he lit it and stuck it between his lips, a simple sign that at least he was finished talking to her.

He unlocked his office and used his keycard to send the elevator down. On the third floor, he offered her the cigarette again. This time she accepted it, though she didn't take a drag until they were out of the elevator and out of the lobby, making their way towards Wolfhound.

It was midday, and all around them Rudshore was silent. It was far more eerie than it had been at two in the morning, making her way towards the Wrenhaven. There should have been people. Instead, there were only high water lines on the outsides of buildings, along with signs of decay dotted along the streets.

"I can't be there when you meet him," Daud said as they neared the door, "so try not to antagonize him."

Callista squinted up at the unlit sign. "Do you really think there's a chance he'll kill me?"

"I don't know." He reached out and plucked the cig from her fingers. "Like I said, he didn't tell me much of anything. Just that he wanted to meet you, so I should escort you down." He nodded to the door. "Should be unlocked; doubt he'd want you coming in from the back. I'll wait out here."

Callista licked at her lips. "Not inside?"

"What, do you want me to play bodyguard from a distance? Won't work. Can't do it, anyway."

She looked at him, then glanced around. Seeing nobody, she stepped close and murmured, "You owe me some explanations when we get back."

Daud canted his head a fraction of an inch, then nodded. "I should be able to do that. Now go."

Callista took a step back, a deep breath, and a moment to collect herself. And then she pushed open the door to Wolfhound and stepped inside.

The lights were all on and grey sunlight filtered in through skylights three stories up. The club looked gutted. She could see all the girders and walkways, and the bar didn't look half so magical when she could see where the polish was worn away and where the boxes for restocking were peeking out. There was a woman, redheaded wearing a newsboy cap, scrubbing at the bar top, while another woman stood nearby and watched, occasionally saying something that the great vastness of the room swallowed up.

Along the back wall, she thought she glimpsed the military man - Havelock - sitting in a booth. Further back, the club's owner, Pendleton, was huddled close with two taller men who looked like they could be his brothers. Pendleton looked less than happy, and his gaze kept darting to Havelock. Havelock seemed to be watching the situation intently, but didn't move to intervene. She would have edged closer, but her attention was taken by the taller man crossing the floor to her. He was broad enough to serve as a bouncer, with a high, receding hairline and a hard nose that seemed vaguely like it must have been broken before, before it was reset almost perfectly.

He frowned down at her.

"Callista Curnow?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm here because-"

"He's upstairs," he said, nodding to a nearby staircase. "Lord Pendleton would like me to inform you that if you cause any trouble-"

"I can imagine, thank you, Mr. ...?"

"Higgins." He peered down his nose at her. "I understand the last few weeks may have been rough for you, Miss Curnow, but Overseer Martin will still expect proper respect and behavior."

"I understand." She looked past him. "Can I go, then? I don't want to keep him waiting."

Higgins looked her over once more, then stepped aside. She made for the stairs.

Martin was waiting for her up on the second floor of the club, far away from where the crowds of dancers would roil in a few hours, but with an easy line of sight to the bar and the door. He leaned casually against the railing. The lights were up, and she could see how crisply tailored his Overseer's uniform was, in slate blue wool picked with black and gold designs. His forehead was high and his ears protruded a little too far from his head to be distinguished. His jaw and bearing more than made up for it.

As she approached, he pushed himself up and turned to greet her. _He_ did not cover his hands, which for a moment she found strange. Too much time around Daud, she decided. He wore an easy, lazy smile, but his gaze was sharp, eyes pale blue and trained wholly on her. She could feel him flaying away her skin, moving in fine layers, analyzing all of her.

She instinctively curled an arm around her waist.

"Lord Pendleton would like me to thank you for sending Mr. Attano our way," Martin began, without so much as an introduction.

Her mouth went dry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No need to play dumb with me, Miss Curnow," Martin said. "There are cameras all around the area surrounding the penthouse. I know you left, and I know you came back of your own free will. Let's not pretend otherwise." His smile widened for a moment, before he moved past her to retrieve a drink from a nearby table.

"Should an Overseer really spend all of his time at a nightclub?" she asked, turning in place, keeping track of his location.

"Don't you want to know what Attano said about your uncle?" he returned, sidestepping her question with practiced ease.

_Geoff_. Her fingers curled and her shoulders hunched inwards, preparing for the worst.

"He's alive," Martin said, softly. He moved closer to her, meeting her gaze and holding it. "Attano knows where he is, but he wasn't able to get him out. It turns out my people have him at the moment."

"The Abbey?" Callista frowned, mind working frantically. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would they..."

"Because," Martin said, swirling his glass, "your uncle was looking into the cash flows around the higher-ups. Campbell in particular, which would lead back to our Lord Hiram Burrows. And he got sloppy." He reached out a hand and lightly touched the small of her back, nudging her towards the railing. She moved, leaden.

"He never told me," she murmured.

"Probably didn't want to worry you. Daud says you're the worrying sort."

"How could he be so _stupid_?" Both of her arms were now firmly wrapped around her middle, and she leaned her weight against the rail, staring unseeing down at the floor.

"I've never met the man," Martin said, "but I would wager on idealism."

"But he's practical! He's always taught me to be practical."

"Then perhaps something else happened. Whatever the reason, though, the High Overseer himself has got your uncle behind bars. And that's where I come in." His hand left her back, and he joined her in looking out over the club. "I'm going to help Attano get him out. I have... some scores of my own to settle with Campbell. It's a small matter to help our mutual friend out. And if he stays around after that…"

"He wants to see Emily."

"Oh, I know. And he will. Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"This city is rotting from the inside out, Miss Curnow," Martin said, gesturing out to the dancefloor and the empty district beyond, his extended fingers trailing paths through the air. "Hiram Burrows is a fool. So is Campbell. In a single year, they've driven us to the brink of bankruptcy, and now there's word of a plague spreading like wildfire through the city. One day, hopefully soon, we can clear Corvo Attano's name and restore Emily Kaldwin to her rightful place on the throne. Until then, it's too dangerous. And if Attano finds Emily before that day, he will make exceedingly foolish decisions. Like running away with her."

"Do you think- he could make Burrows step down?"

Martin sipped at his drink. "Oh, no, Attano won't do that. Burrows is the one who set him up, and Attano knows it. Besides, Burrows would _never_ step down. No, Havelock, Pendleton, and I will find a way to take him out of power some other way. Some realistic way."

"And until then?"

"Until then," Martin said, turning to look at her again, "you will continue teaching Miss Emily. You will remain in your tower. You will not interact with Attano. I've told him that while you never left a message, I might be able to help him find you. Appear too soon, and he'll find Emily, take her, and disappear. Dunwall will continue to decay. Nothing will be gained."

"And if I think that Emily's happiness is more important than your schemes?"

"Then I will have to increase the measures keeping you and your charge locked away."

She considered this. "And my uncle?"

"I will do everything in my power to bring him home safe, and to keep him that way."

"Will I be allowed to see him?"

"No. Nobody knows where you are. It will only last another few months, though. A year at most."

"_Only_ another few months," she muttered, head beginning to ache. "A _year_."

"You will be richly rewarded," Martin said, his hand returning to the small of her back, as if to soothe her - or to remind her that he could easily tip her over the rail. His touch was feather-light. "And you will have an empress's favor."

Callista finally batted away his hand and took a few steps back from the railing. "Why did you have me kidnapped?"

"Because I couldn't have approached you with a job offer. We are keeping Lady Kaldwin's location a closely-held secret - for what I think are obvious reasons. If you had refused me, what then? And if you had accepted, then learned we couldn't let you out of the building for, again, obvious reasons...? No, the way we did things is regrettable, but also the most logical course of action. Besides, you seem to have adapted well to captivity."

Her face contorted into a scowl, just as he raised a hand and gave her a charming smile.

"I'm kidding. I know it's unpleasant. I'd invite you down for nights off, but I'm not sure we'll be able to predict when Attano will come around well enough for your own safety. Surely you realize that if he learns that you're with Emily, he won't take kindly to it?"

"Or to you."

Martin inclined his head. "Indeed. No worries, though. I have a plan for when the time comes."

_I'm sure you do_, she thought, and headed for the stairs.

"Miss Curnow," he called.

She hesitated.

He looked at her, smiling with all his charm, but his mirth didn't reach his eyes. His gaze pierced through her.

"Thank you, again," he said through his grin, "for bringing Attano to us. And thank you as well for your continued cooperation."

His gaze never left her as she walked away.

* * *

Daud met her at the door. If he was relieved to see her tense but otherwise alright, he didn't show it. He was silent the whole walk back to the tower and the whole ride up in the elevator.

He never once took her arm to steer her, and Callista found herself worrying that Martin would see it on his cameras, notice, and begin to suspect that something was wrong. Or would he just assume she was weak and had given up fighting? She hoped the latter.

When they reached his office, she got halfway to the door when he said, "No, sit down for a while. You said I owed you explanations."

She hesitated and looked back at him. "Martin knew I'd left. He has cameras," she warned him.

He shrugged and circled around behind his desk, dropping into his seat. "I know. The ones in the apartment have been... taken care of. I assume he didn't mention your dress, or the Fugue Feast currently going on in the classroom?"

Callista shook her head.

"Then I was right, and my measures were successful. We're safe. Sit down. Do you want a drink?"

"What measures?" she asked, frowning. The offer of a drink was even more puzzling than his cryptic hints. _Aren't I your prisoner?_

He waved a hand dismissively. "Looping previous footage, mostly. It's not your concern. I'll tell you if I need assistance. Sit down, Miss Curnow." He looked pointedly at a chair pushed over against the far wall. She took it and dragged it closer, then sat down across from him.

"A drink would be nice," she said at last. She could certainly use one. Maybe it would make the world stop threatening to throw her off it entirely with all its sudden changes and turns.

He chuckled and stood, going over to the liquor cabinet by the window. He poured them each a finger of Dunwall whiskey. "So, what did you think of Martin?"

"He's very clever," she said.

"And did you meet anybody else?"

"A man named Higgins."

"Pendleton's man. He's not as dangerous as he looks, but he's damn loyal." Daud returned to his desk and set a glass in front of her. "What did Martin tell you?"

Callista considered a moment, then took a deep breath. "He thanked me for bringing Corvo Attano to them."

Daud went very still, then sat back in his chair, curling his gloved fingers around the armrests. The leather creaked. "Corvo Attano," he repeated, gravelly voice tripping over the syllables. "Her Majesty's bodyguard?"

Callista nodded.

Emotions flickered across his face in small jerks and twitches: his lips curling back over his teeth then pressing to a thin line; his eyes narrowing, closing, the skin around them crinkling; the muscles of his jaw tensing and dancing beneath his scarred and lined skin. She couldn't interpret a single expression.

They settled, briefly, into unmistakable guilt. And then he was impassive again, looking her up and down.

"I didn't know you were in contact with him."

"I wasn't. I'm not." Callista glanced at the open elevator doors. "He found me the day I left. Recognized the comb Emily had given me."

Daud watched her a moment longer, then turned to his computer and typed a few things in. His eyes scanned the screen. His expression turned flinty.

"_The Dunwall City Watch in concert with the Abbey of the Everyman is seeking the location of, and information about, Corvo Attano, convicted murderer of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin on the Sixteenth day of the Month of Songs of this year_," he read aloud. "_Corvo Attano escaped Coldridge Detention Center on the Fifth day of the Month of Wind of this year and is believed to be at large, armed, and dangerous. Five officers of the Watch were found dead at the scene. A substantial reward is on offer for any information leading to the apprehension of this dangerous fugitive._"

He frowned at the screen a moment more, then took a healthy swallow of whiskey, grimacing.

"And now Martin's found him. Because of you. Did he follow you, is that it?"

"No. I told him to go to the club." She stared down at her glass, swirled the contents. "He promised to find my uncle, in exchange for learning where Emily was. I was going to leave a message for him at the bar."

"And I got in your way. I doubt it helped anything, though. Martin wouldn't have let him see the note, if it had to do with Emily." He finished off his glass.

"He's sent Corvo after the High Overseer," she said.

"Of course he has," Daud muttered, turning his empty glass to catch the light, then setting it aside and standing. He went over to his window.

"He's told Corvo that he doesn't know where Emily is, but that he'll find out where I've gotten to. He says if Corvo finds out too soon-"

"His grab for power will be at an end." Daud shook his head, hands clasped behind his back.

Callista stirred uneasily in her seat. "Can you go to him? Get Emily to him?"

Daud didn't respond.

"Unless he _was_ involved with the Empress's death? But Martin said he'd been set up, by Burrows..."

Daud remained silent.

"If Corvo can get Emily safely away from all this..."

"He'll kill me the next time he sees me," Daud said, simply.

_I'll flay him alive_. Corvo's words seemed to whisper between the two of them, and Callista grimaced, looking down at her lap.

"And while I deserve it," Daud continued, "I much prefer to live, Miss Curnow. So no, I can't go to him. And Martin knows that, which is why he told you so much. We're both helpless here."

Her heart plummeted. "You could leave him a note," she said, leaning forward, settling a pleading hand on the edge of his desk. "A- a tip. It doesn't have to be a confrontation. He never has to _see _you." She could hear the desperate edge to her voice, and swallowed, thickly.

"There's more to it than that," Daud said, finally turning back to her. "This whole tangled web of _shit_ that we're both in. Do you want me to start at the beginning?"

Callista met his gaze. It was tortured behind the glinting flatness of his self-control. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hand away from the polished wooden surface. "Please. Tell me."

"I killed Jessamine Kaldwin. Hiram Burrows paid me to do it. He paid me to kill the Empress, take her daughter, and go into hiding, to await further instructions. But while we hid, somebody started slaughtering my associates," he snarled, brow drawing down and lips drawing back over his teeth. Then his anger faded. "I couldn't do a damn thing about it," he continued, eyes downcast. "And the whole time the girl was screaming and crying and trying to catch me asleep so she could choke me or stomp on me."

He took up his glass and returned to the cabinet, poured himself another two fingers of whiskey. "And my men kept dying and Burrows took his first actions as Regent and one night, I realized that I'd made a mistake. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being a job. Stopped being an assassination. I'd murdered a woman, and all the coin in the world wouldn't let me forget it."

He was silent a moment, settling back into his chair. Callista watched him, the coiled strength beneath his suit, the tension in his face and shoulders as he fought to keep his voice emotionless.

"I got an offer, after about a week, from Teague Martin. It was very polite. He offered another way. I took it.

"I didn't realize until a month later that _he'd_ been behind the deaths of Billie and the others. Rooted out the hiding places I'd built for them, and sent Overseers to smoke them out and slit their throats. By then it was too late. We were here in this apartment, he had eyes on me, and I didn't care anymore. I could've killed him, but I didn't want to. I could've turned Emily over. I didn't want to. Now, I don't dare to. What would happen then? More chaos. More riots and violence and decay."

Setting his glass aside, he took out a fresh cigarette and lit it. He considered the glowing end. "I'm a coward, Miss Curnow. I hope you understand that now?"

Callista said nothing.

He took a few drags, then let his head fall back, smoke curling from his parted lips.

"Martin has his hooks in everything. Now that he has Corvo, I'm sure his plans will only be accelerated. Maybe he'll actually succeed where Burrows is failing. Maybe he'll set things right."

Callista sat forward. "Do you actually believe that?"

Daud didn't answer.

She looked around the room, seeing it through new lenses. He'd been the picture of professionalism with her - her kidnapping, her installment in the house, her continued management. How easily and quickly he had stopped using physical threats and dropped the posturing made sense now; his heart wasn't in it, but his body still remembered the motion and his mind still filled the job he was given.

"So I'm stuck here, then?" she asked, quietly. "We'll just wait for Martin's plans to resolve?"

Daud hummed deep in his throat, then straightened in his seat, levelling his gaze at her. "For now."

Her throat worked for a moment while she tried to sort out her words. She took a sip of whiskey to chase them out. "Then what do you need an ally for?" she asked, softly. "Why tell me this? Just because I _asked_?"

He considered, lips pursed. "I suppose I want the company," he said. "The openness. The understanding. And there's always a chance Martin will fuck up, and I'll need somebody to help me."

She closed her eyes. _Don't do this. Don't put this on me_. At the same time as she wanted to draw back, however, she felt a surge of need. Emily relied on her.

Maybe this meant _she_ could rely on somebody else, too.

"I'm just a tutor," she said, opening her eyes again.

He considered her, lifting a brow as if to suggest she were lying.

She looked away from him again. "So those rules - they're Martin's? About the colors, and what Emily can have access to?"

"His, yes," Daud said, and she could hear his chair creak as he shifted in it, getting comfortable once more. "Inherited from the penthouse's previous owner and decorator."

"And who was that?" she asked, daring to look back at him.

"Lydia Boyle," Daud said, tapping ash onto the carpet.

"_Boyle_? The noble family?" She frowned. _Boyle_, the family closely tied to the current regency? She'd seen the name over and over in the paper.

Daud's smirk gave her enough of an answer, as did his shrug. "Yes, and her sister Esma is currently sleeping with Hiram Burrows. Makes things interesting, doesn't it?" His smirk gave way to a mirthless smile. "I've met Lydia once before. I think she'd enjoy Emily's application of feathers to the walls. She seems the sort who loves rules because they can be transgressed. The rigidity comes from Martin, though with him it's all practical."

"For ease of watching you. Us." How recently had the cameras been doctored? Had Martin seen Daud talking to himself, late at night? Had he seen Emily give her the comb? Had he seen Callista try to fight Daud that first day?

"And making sure _we_ don't transgress any other rules, yes. We're not allowed even the smallest rebellions here - though I hope my workaround holds."

"Is that why you wouldn't get the paints?" she asked, frowning again.

"I wouldn't get the paints because I didn't trust you not to tell him, if he ever asked." He shrugged. "I have a little more faith in you now."

"What, because I came back when I had nowhere else to go?" She wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips. "Seems like a leap of faith."

"It was. I haven't been disappointed yet, though."

Callista considered a moment, then nodded and finished off her drink. "You should take my gun, you know. So Emily doesn't see it. It's in the top drawer of my dresser right now."

"I had assumed you'd feel safer with it," he said, looking down at the smoke curling from his hand.

"I do," she said, quickly. "Except that Emily-"

"Has shown a definite interest in weapons, yes. I understand. If you want me to take it, I will. I'll put it in the top drawer of _my_ desk," he said. "I'll leave the key with you if I ever go out."

He offered it so easily. It was hard not to trust him. And she wanted to, so badly.

She nodded. "Take it," she said. And then she straightened up in her seat. "So Martin got this place from Lydia Boyle?" she asked, making herself focus on their situation and not on him in particular.

"Correct," he said, watching her closely.

"And he's set himself up against the Lord Regent and the High Overseer, with the support of a retired-"

"Forcibly, quietly discharged," Daud corrected, then took another long drag on his cigarette.

Her mouth twitched into a grimace for just a moment. "A discharged admiral and a lord with cash flow."

"Not equal to his brothers', though. It's a sore spot for Pendleton. I expect getting them out of the way will become a goal quite soon."

She shifted forward in her seat. "Will he ask for your help on that?"

Daud shook his head. "I told you, Miss Curnow. I'm not in that line of business anymore. Martin knows that - and it's useful to him, so he doesn't push it."

She nodded, looking down at her lap. "So Corvo, then."

"If this thing with Campbell goes well, I expect so, yes. So- Martin and his compatriots? Go on?"

Callista took a deep breath, and continued as if she were reciting before a classroom. "He has Emily Kaldwin kept here in secret, guarded by her mother's killer, and he holds your guilt around your neck like a noose." She lifted her gaze to his. She thought back to Martin and his easy charm, the gleam in his eye. Something clicked and she leaned forward, propping an elbow on her thigh and her chin in her hand. "He thinks he can _control_ you, and can easily set you up as the bad guy should his designs be interrupted early."

His lips curled in a dark, pleased smile. "_Very good_, Miss Curnow."

"Eventually," she said, growing bolder in her analysis, "he'll step forward with Emily, announce he's located her, restore her to power, and if we cooperate with his game, he'll be able to make it look even to her like he's rescued her. I'm sure we'll be expected to help that process along."

"And I'm sure he has a back-up plan. Mostly because she doesn't know who he is, and he likes it that way - which means there's always the chance she won't trust him even if she _does_ believe he rescued her."

She hummed in thought. That would be a difficult moment, the transition. Perhaps...

But she wasn't a strategist. If Daud wasn't advancing a way for them to get out at that point, then she certainly wouldn't.

She shook her head, changing tack. "Corvo Attano will help him as long as Martin makes it look like he can find Emily."

"True."

"Would she trust _Corvo_, if Corvo said Martin was on their side?"

Daud nodded. "Absolutely," he grunted.

Callista tapped a finger against her lip. "If Corvo finds us before Martin's ready, doesn't that mean he'll learn not to trust Martin at all?"

"It _means_ that I'll be dead and you'll likely be cast as either an accomplice or another victim, whichever Martin thinks will shut you up quicker. Corvo will be harder to control then, but still possible, if he wants to give Emily back the life she once had, and doesn't see Martin as a _direct_ threat." He stubbed out his burnt-down smoke in the ashtray at his elbow.

"And if we made a run for it with her, he'd alert the Overseers to us."

"They'd gun us down like dogs in the street," Daud agreed, "and Martin would be a hero. Wouldn't be ideal for him, but we'd be dead."

"But if we could tell somebody..."

"I'm a notorious hitman, Miss Curnow."

"If I-"

"And you're now my captive- who has likely convinced herself she has feelings for me in order to ease the psychological stress of prolonged captivity and threat to her life. At least, that's how they'll see it. Easy to dismiss, and they will."

She flinched at the idea. If Martin had cameras in the club as well, had footage of them dancing-

Callista cleared her throat and straightened up. "Is that why he let me go? Didn't send anybody after me? He knew he could cover for me if I told anybody about Emily?"

He nodded, slowly. "And you only told Corvo, and even then, you lied. You didn't want people to know how involved you were. He has you, the same as me."

"Then what do we do?"

Daud considered a moment, then shrugged.

"We wait for an opportunity."

* * *

Callista gently tugged another brightly-dyed feather off the wall, then scraped at the craft glue left behind. Over at the classroom table, Emily sat quietly doing a page of sums.

An hour earlier, when Daud unlocked the door, Emily had come crashing through, beating at him with clenched fists, then tugging at his clothing. Her fury had only ebbed a millimeter when she saw Callista, unharmed, behind him. She had shouted and raged; gone was the girl who could sit pleasantly at a dinner table with a paid killer, and returned with a vengeance was the orphaned girl who couldn't stand to be in the same world as her mother's murderer.

Daud took every punch and kick stoically. He didn't bat her away or glare or shout at her. He simply slipped his hands into his pockets and, if Callista wasn't mistaken, closed his eyes to wait it out.

She'd looked back and forth between them, and said Emily's name, and asked her to stop, and nothing had worked.

Finally, Emily had screamed at Daud to get out of her sight, and he had obeyed.

Emily had gone silent, and marched straight into the classroom.

Callista didn't know if Emily's attention on her math work was in some way a ritual meant to keep Callista around, but she didn't question it, instead continuing the slow work of cleaning up the aftermath of craft time.

With the last of the feathers either salvaged or dumped in the trash, Callista made her way over to the table, peering over Emily's shoulder.

"Very good," she said. There were errors on maybe a quarter of the problems, but they could go over that in the morning, and the morning after that. There were many mornings to come.

Emily's pencil stopped moving.

"Why do you smell like smoke?" she asked. "You smelled like it the other day, too. The day you came back."

Callista considered her answer, hand coming to rest on the back of Emily's chair. Which answer would draw less of the girl's judgment? "I had a cigarette both days," Callista said, going with the answer that didn't involve Daud.

"Is that where he took you? To go _smoke_?" The words dripped with anger and sarcasm.

Callista sank into the chair next to her, and took a gamble. "He took me to see the man that's employing him, the one who's making him hold you captive here. The one who had him take me."

Emily had lifted her pencil to resume her figuring, but she paused with it in mid-air. Then she brought it to the paper, before pausing again. Her brow furrowed. Her lips pursed.

"What?" Emily asked, softly.

_You didn't suspect_. Callista's heart shivered and broke a little, and she leaned forward, saying softly, "Daud has done horrible things. But he does them on behalf of other people. A man paid him to kill your mother. Another man holds us all captive."

"Nobody could hold him captive," Emily said, firmly. "_Nobody_. You didn't see- you don't understand."

"Understand what, Emily?"

Emily looked up at her with wide eyes, biting her lip. "He's unstoppable. Mom and I were meeting Corvo, all of us together, and then suddenly _he_ was there."

"He was hiding? Waiting?"

"No! He _appeared_. Out of nothing. The shadows left the walls and then they all came together and made _him_, and then some other men, too, and before Corvo could do anything, he'd been shot, and then Daud grabbed my mother and..." She trailed off, dropped her pencil and clenched her fists. "Don't you get it?" she murmured after a moment. "If he wanted to go, he'd go. He _wants_ to do this. He's a horrible, wretched man, and when I am Empress I will have him taken apart piece by piece and I'll hang his head from a tower and I'll shoot at it until it's _full of holes_ and his brains leak out and- and-"

Callista should have comforted her. She should have reached out and gathered the girl up, or at least put a hand on her shoulder, let Emily guide her. She should have been horrified on Emily's behalf, should have been re-evaluating trusting the man.

But all she could think about was _the shadows left the walls_, and the way she'd been sure something strange was going on, in the weeks before she'd been kidnapped. She'd seen shadows flitting on walls, in places where they shouldn't have been, and somehow Daud - if he really had been following her that day - had gotten from behind her to the bus stop without her ever noticing.

And then there was the distant memory of her nightmare, of the hollow-eyed man...

Emily drawing her knees to her chest and letting out a whimpering sob brought her back, and Callista sank to her knees beside the girl, rubbing at her shoulder.

"I understand," Callista murmured. "I do. I understand."

"No you don't," Emily mumbled into her knees. "You're not fighting him anymore. Not like when he wouldn't get the paints. You just went with him today."

"Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to, to remain safe."

"_Nothing_ is safe around him."

"Saf_er_, then," Callista said.

"You don't understand," she repeated. "You don't. You can't."

"... I know," Callista said, letting out a shaky breath. "But I'm still here. What if I got you some tea?"

But Emily only pulled away from her and slid out of her chair.

"I'm going to bed early," Emily said.

"It's not even dinner time-"

"I'm going to bed early," she said again, flatly. "I'll see you in the morning."

Callista watched helplessly as the girl, all in white, her hands still smeared with paint, walked with somber, heavy grace out the door and into the hallway.

She sat a long while in that room. Just yesterday, Emily had laughed and triumphed over dinner, had felt like she was finally in control of at least some part of her life. And now she'd been forcibly reminded that it was all an illusion. Callista felt the same sick echo in herself. Daud had brought her into his confidence, but there was little she could do - and now there might be other things she didn't know about her captor. Melting into the shadows? Something beyond understanding?

Even realizing that there was nothing they could do to free themselves from Martin's grip, even knowing that the city was falling apart, hadn't had the same whiplash effect as realizing that maybe Daud hadn't told her everything, after all.

She felt like a fool. Of course he hadn't.

But- _powers_?

She'd thought stories of magic and witchcraft and heresy had died out years ago, a century or more. From time to time, movies or books brought up the old legends of the Outsider and the leviathans in the deep, but the oceans and world had been tamed, and there were no lurking monsters. The Abbey no longer concerned itself with such things. Time marched on. What had once been the Oracular Order was now a great thinktank of mathematicians, running probability tests to guide industry and politics and environmental measures. The Outsider was an old myth. Magic was a daydream.

And she knew, better than most, how grief could warp a memory, could stretch it out or compress it or twist it or color it in different hues, but-

_Powers_?

She thought of Daud's eternally gloved hands, of his argument with himself the night she'd escaped, and she thought of the nightmare she remembered in snatches, the hollow-eyed man staring at her from the mirror.

Eventually, she stood and made her way downstairs. She'd ask. He'd laugh it off. And then she'd tell him that it was better for all of them if he stopped interacting with Emily, because it would only antagonize her.

She found him standing by one of the great windows, staring out at the city. The sun was setting and, on the horizon, in the direction of the poorer districts, a fire blazed.

"Was only a matter of time," he said, no doubt hearing her footsteps. "Though I'm surprised the floodlights aren't on near Clavering and Holger, if Martin was being honest when he said they were going after Campbell."

She was just opening her mouth to respond when Daud hissed,

"And what did _he_ do to catch your interest, I wonder?"

_My interest_? She wasn't interested at all in Martin, and Corvo had gotten her interest with a gun to her spine. She licked her lips and swallowed and tried to think up a response. But before she could say anything, Daud's shoulders twitched, and he barked a laugh.

"_Jealous_?" She caught the barest hint of his reflection in the glass, and his scowl was split by a fierce, savage grin. His hands curled to fists by his sides, and she could imagine every muscle and tendon jumping out in stark relief beneath the tailored armor of his suit. She watched as he ducked his head as if listening, before asking, almost pleading, "So why aren't you leaving me alone, then?"

For a moment, he looked vulnerable, but it swiftly transformed to fury, enough to make her take a step back. "What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" he growled.

He was silent another moment, the measure of a sentence, maybe two. "Start talking sense!" His shoulders bunched as if he were about to strike the window, but he restrained himself. His chest heaved with his breaths. Callista watched, transfixed, aghast. She remembered all too clearly how Daud had downed glass after glass of whiskey the night she'd gotten out, how he'd mumbled to himself.

"I want you to leave me alone," he said, and his face was lit too starkly by the lights in the room, transfiguring him into the semblance of a raging beast. Outside, the distant fire seemed to grow hazy. Night was falling fast. Daud's reflection grew more solid.

Another pause. Again, his brow and mouth contorted and shifted with a hundred different emotions, flashing from one to the other. He shuddered. He bowed his head. "I will _not_ kill Kaldwin's daughter," he growled and her blood ran cold despite his protest.

What thoughts were tormenting him? Who did he imagine speaking to him? Who-

To the left of Daud's reflection, hovering near the pale blotch that must have been her face, was another. As she watched, its features resolved, revealing a young man with dark, hollow eyes. Distantly, she thought she heard water in the sink dripping upwards into the faucet.

He smiled at her, and held one finger to his lips.

Callista watched as Daud stiffened, then slowly turned to face her, brow furrowed, eyes wide. At his sides, his hands remained clenched. His throat worked.

His lips parted as if to say something. Color touched his cheeks.

Behind him, the hollow-eyed man watched her, unblinking.

She tried not to stare at the figure in the window, and she kept herself from shaking through pure force of will.

"How long have you been standing there?" Daud asked.

Callista licked her lips and felt her dry throat creak in preparation for words. "Emily," she rasped. Daud snarled and looked away, and she quickly added, "I think it'd be best for you two to keep apart for a while."

He closed his eyes and breathed in heavy, measured huffs.

"It only hurts her, seeing you," Callista continued. All the while, her watcher kept his finger to his lips. He smiled at her. He nodded. She swallowed down her fear and tried to sound as easy as possible. "Today reminded her of her mother. I think I'd better be the go-between."

"I have no problem with her hating me, Miss Curnow," Daud rasped. "Don't try to protect me."

"I'm not. You absolutely deserve it. But she doesn't deserve being forced to stand in your presence."

Daud was silent, then stalked past her, towards his office and - no doubt - his liquor cabinet.

"Fine," he said over his shoulder. "I'll leave lunch on the table for you tomorrow at noon. Bring her down when the mood strikes you. I'll be sure to stay out of the way."

His voice faded. The door to his office slammed shut.

In the window, the image of the young man faded away, leaving only her own reflection.

* * *

_._

_._

_._

Dust After Rain began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here's the prompt from Chapter 5!

_His fingers trailing paths through the air._


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 6**_

In the morning, a storm had rolled in with tall thunderclouds and the promise of a swollen Wrenhaven by noon. Sirens howled in the streets, echoes bouncing between towering office buildings. Trucks even rumbled down the main thoroughfares of Rudshore. Dunwall was now in an official state of emergency.

The High Overseer was dead.

Callista found a newspaper waiting for her downstairs, and she scanned over the front page as she made herself some tea. The official front page article was devoid of most details, and was spun into undeniable propaganda. No surprise, since the Dunwall Record had been purchased some time ago by one of Hiram Burrows' companies. It referred to the event as 'the heinous massacre' or 'the horrific crime', but never mentioned how Thaddeus Campbell had met his end.

She did find out that at least fifteen Overseers were also believed dead, along with six hounds and three police officers.

Forgetting her steeping tea, Callista flipped to the obituaries section. There were no names from the incident, of course. That would come in the next few days. Still, something in her eased when she didn't see _Geoff Curnow_ printed in those columns.

She flipped back to the main story, followed it into the bulk of the paper. The government was outraged, a full scale manhunt was on, Corvo Attano was blamed. _Anti-regency sentiment_ was cited, along with _terrorism_ and _fear-mongering_.

Halfway down the second page of the article, next to a first hand account from the man who had sounded the alarm, was a scrawled note:

_Our friends should learn some subtlety._

At the end of the article - after a rousing cry for citizens to assist in the tracking and apprehension of Corvo Attano and his theorized accomplice, for crimes not only against the office of the High Overseer but also against the safety of the citizens of Dunwall themselves - there was another small note:

_No mention of the fire across the river. Notice that_?

She hadn't. Frowning, she paged through the rest of the newspaper.

She found a one line blurb on the back page, tucked into a corner, lamenting that an equipment malfunction had led to a fire that left several dead and many more injured and homeless, through no fault of any individuals.

She grimaced and finally poured herself a cup of tea.

* * *

Class was a solemn affair. Emily had heard the news, of course, blaring from loudspeakers. She'd heard that there had been a murder. She'd heard that Corvo Attano was at large in Dunwall.

She drew and drew and refused to speak.

Callista toyed with the idea of telling her. She could make tea and sandwiches, and they could sit with the door closed, and she could tell the girl that yes, Corvo was out of jail (but not that she'd seen him - that would only make the girl's feelings of betrayal over her leaving all the stronger), and that he was no doubt looking for her. That he knew the men who were keeping her captive. That he was close.

Then her throat closed up because she knew she couldn't make those promises.

Besides, she wasn't entirely sure what Emily thought of him. Did she miss him, a touchstone of her former life? Did she hate him for not saving her mother? There had been rumors, at the trial, that the Empress had been sleeping with Attano, but nothing had ever been substantiated. Did Emily know, one way or the other?

Callista couldn't look at the girl, and only read from a book on the history of Morley.

At noon, they went down for lunch. As promised, it was laid out for them and Daud was absent. By Emily's accustomed place at the table was a book on guns.

Emily took it and tucked it into her lap, then ate her lunch without comment.

When they returned upstairs, Emily went straight to her room and shut the door, and Callista didn't have the energy to argue. Maybe in another day or so, things would calm down and they could go back to pretending their arrangement was normal. Maybe in another day or so, she wouldn't wince as she walked; the bandages had been reduced to a few bandaids, and she could wear shoes again, but the reminders of her escape were still there in her gait. Maybe in another day or so, Callista could write off the reflection in the window as a daydream, and forget about how Daud had hissed at himself about killing Emily.

At least, Callista thought as she wandered downstairs again, the book might remind Emily that while her control over her life was very small, there was still some left. She had asked Daud for the book, and Daud had delivered. Callista couldn't bring herself to disapprove. Yes, it would likely give Emily more violent ideas, and yes, Callista would have to turn over her own gun very soon, but at least Emily had gotten the book for herself.

She was standing by the great windows with a fresh cup of tea, staring out at the drifting smoke coming from the burned district when she heard faint footsteps behind her. She expected Emily, but when she turned, it was Daud.

_Oh_. He'd been making an attempt to be audible, so she wouldn't be surprised. A grimace flashed across her face and she turned back to the window to hide it. _Small favors_.

"She's shut herself in her room again," Callista said.

"I know. Martin may be getting looped and altered footage, but the raw video from the cameras in the apartment feeds to my computer."

She turned back to him, grimace turning into a frown. Before she could say anything, he lifted a hand and added, "There are none in the bathroom, and I only check the bedroom footage when I need to edit it for his consumption."

"Good," she said, his words drawing her attention to aspects of her life in the penthouse she'd been avoiding considering. She took a sip of tea.

Daud eyed her for a moment, and she wondered if he was about to offer an explanation about the night before. Instead, he half-turned and nodded his head towards his office. "Your uncle taught you some self defense, right?"

Callista frowned and curled her hands more tightly around her mug. "Yes, several years ago. Before I moved out on my own for the first time."

"Good. Time to practice, then."

She shook her head. "I'm not interested."

"You might have to fight for your life any day, Miss Curnow. Don't count on somebody else to protect you when that day comes." He gave up on his slight nod and instead gestured with an open arm. "There's an empty floor two stories down that I've cleared for the occasion."

"I'm not leaving again," she said, stance widening a little as if she expected him to come at her. And maybe he would, if she kept saying no. "If Emily comes down and finds me gone - she's not okay right now."

"She hasn't been okay for nine months," he said, almost snapped. "And we _are_ going to do this, so you have one of two choices: we practice where she can't see, and run the risk of her thinking you've left the tower or are closeted up in my office with me, or we practice in _this_ room and run the risk of her coming down and seeing you fighting me. Which do you think will frighten her more? Because I'm pretty sure I know the answer."

Callista went very still. She could almost hear Emily's angry, grieving scream, could feel her little hands around her shoulders trying to pull her to safety.

With a deep breath, she went over and set her tea down on the counter.

"And this really can't wait a day or two?"

"If she's shut herself away again, what better time?" Daud asked, and he was too close behind her. She spun around, elbows up, to find him watching her from only a foot away. "Though of course we'll do this as many times as it takes to assure me that you can take care of yourself adequately."

She scowled, edging away from him. "Where is this coming from?"

"Corvo and Martin have proven themselves capable of taking down the High Overseer, with all his security and guards. One day, Martin might make a mistake, and Corvo will come for Emily. Or maybe we'll outlive our usefulness, or have to run for our lives."

"And you'll be just fine," Callista pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest.

Daud didn't respond at first. She watched him think, his gaze flicking across her face, then down to her crossed arms, her stance. "Because we're allies, and I like being able to rely on my allies. Come on."

She sighed and let her arms drop to her sides. "Well, let me go get changed first."

"Are you going to get changed if Corvo breaks in here?" Daud said, voice dripping with sarcasm, and turned for his office.

Callista watched him go. He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. He wasn't the only deadly force in this whole mess.

She took a few deep, steadying breaths, then followed.

They took the elevator down two floors. Callista had assumed that all the other floors had been abandoned given their situation and the exterior of the building, but the doors opened up on a clean, if empty, room. There were even mats spread on the floor.

"I'm serving as Emily's bodyguard as well as captor," Daud said as he led her into the room proper. "I need a place to practice. Martin isn't an idiot, so he had the room outfitted." Around a corner she thought she could see a punching bag. Other equipment likely wouldn't be far beyond.

"Please tell me," she said, "that you don't have a shooting range down here, too."

He snorted. "No. Emily wouldn't appreciate hearing gunshots, I think."

Callista shifted her weight back and forth between the balls of her feet, working past the dull throbs and the pull of her skin against newly forming callouses. The plastic of her bandaids scraped on the mat.

"... Do you really care for her?" she asked, canting her head slightly.

Daud considered as he shrugged off his suit jacket. It was the first time she'd seen him without it, she realized. Without it, and without his tie or button up that he removed next, he seemed far broader, his chest more barreled. His arms were thickly muscled and scarred, and his undershirt stretched across his wide shoulders.

He still didn't remove his gloves.

"In my own way, yes," Daud said at last. "I think she doesn't deserve all of this. Doesn't deserve a dead mother, doesn't deserve to live alone with her mother's murderer. She's a good enough girl. But if I care any more than that, it would be... harder to do what I have to do."

"And you'd start doing things that would make her hate you more," Callista said. Daud looked up to her, brow quirked. "If you were gentle with her, she'd hate you more," she went on. "She wouldn't know how to categorize you. Bringing her tea is hard enough for her to reconcile, I think. She hates you, but sometimes she likes you well enough. And she hates _that_ all the more."

Daud smiled, grimly. "So I should stay away. Like you said."

"It wasn't what I was thinking of when I said it, but yes. Yes, I guess so."

He nodded, then held out a hand and beckoned. "Come on. On the mats. How many years has it been?"

She counted back as she toed off her shoes and followed him. "I was seventeen. So, six years."

"Shit," he muttered. At her confused frown, he shrugged. "I always forget how young you are."

"I get that a lot," she said, and tried to remember where to put her feet. "So, where are we starting?"

"Throws," he said. "Remember the theory?"

She squinted. "I've got a lower center of gravity than you do, so I should be able to use your momentum against you?"

Instead of answering, he came at her in a sudden burst of speed. She yelped and swore and danced back.

"_Throws_, Miss Curnow. Hold your damn ground!" He came at her from her left, and she caught hold of his outstretched arm. The problem came when she tried to throw him over her hip; she ended up on the ground hard, hip striking the mat, and her grip on him loosened.

He stayed more or less standing.

"Again," he said.

She pushed herself up, but before she could fully straighten, he came at her again. She twisted and tried to maneuver him over her leg. This time, he slipped out of her grip and landed in a crouch, and she had to backpedal to put space between them and get her own stance back.

They danced around each other, and soon Callista's brow was slicked with sweat, her hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks in whorls. Daud's gloves stuck to her skin as he moved, rubbing the flesh raw. It took four or five falls before her body began to remember how to do it right, and she ended up with bruises on her knees and elbows, red splotches on the sides of her calves.

"Can't we do this more _systematically_?" she panted, retreating away from him and rubbing at her shoulder.

"Geoff Curnow wouldn't have trained you halfway," Daud returned, straightening and rolling his shoulders. He had only half an inch at most on her, but he still outweighed her by a good sixty or seventy pounds at least. And he had yet to break a sweat.

"I don't remember! It's been six _years_."

"Your body remembers. Just have to jog the memory." Daud grinned, the same feral, savage grin she'd seen in his reflection the night before, but filled only with excitement, not anger. She shivered, and immediately jumped back as he began strolling up to her.

"But maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe we could take this slowly. Go through forms. I could be the teacher for once."

"That would probably be more effective," she said, taking another few steps back. He never broke stride, and his pace was leisurely. Still, after weeks together she knew better than to trust him. She kept her guard up and watched him warily.

"I suppose I overestimated you," he said.

She froze, expression crumpling before she could stop it. _Of course you overestimated me_, she wanted to say. _I'm no fighter. I'm not you. I'm just a teacher who can't even get a job in a school_-

And then he struck, fast, coming in from the side with his elbow aimed at her gut. It was the mirror image of what had happened at the bus stop, and she reacted on instinct, getting her arms over his back and bringing her knee up into his gut. He curled around the blow, and she tightened her grip and let herself fall back, taking him with her.

If she'd done it right, he would have landed on his head and likely snapped his neck.

Instead, she let go and he managed to lift his head and land on his shoulder and arm instead, sprawled on top of her. She gasped for breath even as he lifted up his weight, his arms on either side of her.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he murmured, and she realized she'd closed her eyes. She opened them to see him staring down at her, flushed and bright-eyed. There was even a bead of sweat along the upper edge of the scar running down the side of his face.

She swallowed thickly. He smelled like leather and tobacco and whiskey and sweat, and when it all combined with the adrenaline burning through her body, her head began to spin. She licked at her lips. "Of course it was," she managed.

He snorted, and the quickest smile tugged at his lips. "Fine," he said, "we'll do it your way. Nice, sedate lessons."

"Good."

Their legs, at least, weren't tangled; the moment Daud pushed himself up more than a few inches, she could squirm out from beneath him, ignoring the way his belt buckle dug into her thigh. He rolled away, and she stood, smoothing down her shirt and taking long, deep breaths.

He rubbed at his shoulder with his black-gloved hands. Her attention narrowed to them, because the whole rest of him was still a bit too much, too imposing and too... _him_.

"Do you always wear those?"

"Have you ever seen me not?" he returned. The look he gave her was withering, and she made herself focus on how _her_ hands seemed to burn, instead. She remembered trying to attack him, when she'd first woken up in the penthouse. If she hadn't doubted herself, if she hadn't been so sure she would ultimately fail, would things have turned out differently?

No, she decided. She'd only thrown Daud because he was waiting to be thrown.

"Ready to go again?" he asked, and she looked up, startled. His expression eased. "Your way, with direction."

She considered a moment, then nodded.

* * *

That night, she took a long, hot shower, and went through a mental inventory of what was in her closet. She had one or two outfits that could hide the bruises Daud had left her with. Emily had still been in her room when they'd returned to the prison proper, and, as far as Callista could tell, she'd never noticed they were gone. Callista wasn't about to worry her now.

Stepping out of the shower, she eyed the fogged-over mirror warily. Going a whole day without pressing Daud for answers about the figure in the glass didn't mean she'd forgotten the questions. But beyond her own murky shadow in the glass, she was alone.

Toweling dry and changing into shorts and a tank top, she considered the expanse of evening left to her. Daud had retired with a certain finality, locking the door as soon as she'd stepped out of his office. Emily hadn't made a peep. It was only eight, and she was bone-weary but not ready for sleep.

So instead of turning into her bedroom, she instead went to the library.

At first, she looked only for a novel or a book on sailing. But the first book on ships she found was about the old whaling vessels, and she frowned, staring down at it. After a moment's hesitation, she flipped to the index and scanned through it.

No mention of the Outsider.

She kept looking. She pulled book after book on the ocean and on mythology and on the Abbey of the Everyman. None held a single word on the Outsider that she could find. It was an old tale, she reminded herself, and if he - _it_ - really was somehow involved with Daud and the penthouse, there was little chance Daud would have left a text explaining the connection around. Maybe it was just a- ghost.

Somehow, the existence of ghosts seemed even less likely. She moved to another row of shelves.

At last she found a book bound in purple cloth with gold embossing whose spine read _The Leviathans_. She pulled it from the shelf and opened it to the frontispiece, expecting at most an old treatise on whaling.

Instead, she was met with a finely lined bookplate stating that the book's owner was one Lydia Farragut Boyle and a subtitle, _On the creatures of the Void. _Her skin felt chill despite the climate control, and she traced her thumb over Lydia's name. Lydia Boyle, who set rules so they could be broken, according to Daud. Lydia Boyle, who had left at least one of her books behind when she left Rudshore.

She'd have to ask Daud - had Lydia left this place behind when the district flooded, or had she only just handed it over to Martin nine months ago?

Leaning her weight against the nearby window sill, Callista flipped through the book. The first few chapters were simply outdated speculation on what might lurk beneath the surface of the oceans. But as she reached the halfway point, the nature of the book changed. It delved so deeply into the darkest waters of the sea that it bypassed modern knowledge. It spoke of underwater lakes and rivers, of vents so hot the water boiled to gas beneath the waves, of creatures unknown and vast and terrible.

She turned the page and reached the chapter titled _The Outsider_.

There were theories upon theories about the nature and true form of the entity that humans had been reporting sightings of for over five centuries, likely more. She drank them in. The creature had appeared as every permutation of human being she could have imagined, and then more again, stretching the limits of what the observers could perceive as a person. It had sung whalesong and it had gnawed bone. It had encompassed the whole of the night sky, and been as small as a grain of sand.

More than once, it had appeared as a young man with hollow, dark eyes. Her fingers curled tight around the cover of the book and she closed her eyes for a moment. She could imagine the young man perfectly, staring back at her from the surface of mirrors.

The chapter didn't mention mirrors, but it did mention reports of water running up. Slowly, she sank down to the floor, knees to her chest as she read.

Near the end of the chapter, she found a footnote next to a picture of an elaborate black glyph:

_The Outsider's Mark: a symbol associated with early worship of the Outsider. Artifacts, usually made of bone, have been found adorned with this symbol as far back as the Pandyssian nations. Early Abbey of the Everyman laws call for the burning of all people bearing this mark on their bodies._

_While most scholars now agree that those bearing the marks were cultists who had voluntarily tattooed themselves with the sign of their 'god', there is some speculation that a few individuals throughout history, including the noblewoman Vera Moray who accompanied one of Gristol's first expeditions to the Pandyssian continent, found the mark spontaneously and inexplicably burned into their flesh, usually on the hand. What this might mean is unclear; however, it is said that Lady Moray lived for over two hundred years and was followed everywhere she went by white rats._

_The writers, of course, maintain that such legends are just that: stories that have been exaggerated over decades of retellings._

She glanced up at the door. It was closed. But Daud could be anywhere. He moved silently despite seemingly always wearing polished dress shoes, wearing well-tailored suits. That wasn't natural. And Emily had claimed he had melted from the shadows, and it fit her own memories of her abduction. And then there was the face in the mirror, in the window, the way Daud always covered his hands...

Her fingers curled against the page of the book, and then she shut it, firmly, and shoved it back onto the shelf closest to her.

She stared up at the white ceiling with its black trim, and counted to fifty. There was still a chance, however small, that this was all the product of a stressed and frightened mind. Humans were terrifying, but a supernatural element would have made it all like a movie. The horror would have been easily compartmentalized. Justified. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

If there was some eldritch demi-god haunting their bathroom, if Daud was some sort of supernatural assassin, she'd deal with it only when it became a problem. Otherwise, it would just lead her astray.

Her eyes were still closed when there was a quiet knock on the door. The hinges whispered as the door opened.

"There you are," Daud said.

She wrinkled her nose, for a moment wanting to be as brave as Emily and demand that he leave her alone.

"Martin wants to see you again."

Her eyes snapped open, focusing on him. It looked like he, too had, taken a shower, his hair now freshly combed back.

"Is Geoff with him?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I don't know," he said, with a faint smile that said, _Of course I don't know_. "I'm as surprised as you are. Didn't think he'd call for you again for weeks."

Callista turned her head enough to glance out the window. It was full night. "Is the club closed?"

"No, open. That's the other surprising part."

She pursed her lips, then shook her head. "No, he did say he'd invite me down for nights off when he could."

Daud frowned. "Did he."

"I think he's trying to make me like him more," she said.

"Hmph." Daud nodded his head to the door. "Well, you should probably wear something a bit more put together, if you're going."

Callista flushed, glancing down at her sleep clothes. She tugged down the hem of her shorts over her bony thighs, clearing her throat. "Is it an invitation, then? One I can refuse?"

"Technically. Do you want to try refusing?"

She looked up to meet his gaze. His expression had turned grim and- apologetic. She looked away. "No, I guess not. No need to stick my head in an eel cave."

He snorted, and she glanced up just long enough to see a flash of genuine amusement cross his face.

"Are you allowed in with me, this time?"

"I am, as a matter of fact. I even considered wearing my good red shirt, but then I decided I wasn't quite ready to insult Martin to his face." He lifted a brow even as his voice remained level, deadpan.

She fought back a smile as she stood up. "So that's a no on the blue dress?"

"That's a no. If you put it on the list, I'll find a cocktail dress that's club and penthouse appropriate."

"You could just skip the list."

"I wouldn't presume." His lips twitched. She couldn't stop the faint laugh that escaped her lips, and only barely managed to cover her mouth in time. "I'll wait for you downstairs," he added, then disappeared back into the hallway.

* * *

She managed a halfway-decent outfit of grey woollen ribbed tights and a brown sweater dress, with a belt around her waist to break up the endless expanse of dun. Daud waited downstairs, paging through the newspaper. He glanced up as she approached, and for half a second she thought he might offer her his arm. He didn't, of course, and led the way down to the street without a word.

The night was cool and damp, and the streets were slicked with rain. The trash accumulating against buildings and in gutters was soaked through. Dunwall looked grey and bleak, and in the distance she could see spotlights reflecting off the heavy cloud cover.

"I bet they're not letting anybody through the checkpoints now," Callista said. "Probably for the best, though. If they stop public transit, that virus that's going around won't spread so much."

She paused, rolled the question forming in her mouth over her tongue a few times. Then she chanced it.

"Do you know anything about that? The virus?"

"What, you mean the one with the worst timing in recent memory?" Daud returned. "I have theories. But paranoia's an easy trap to fall into these days. I wouldn't worry about it. Your chances of coming in contact with it are pretty slim, wouldn't you say?"

"Thank you for the reminder," she said, but her glare was half-hearted. Martin's invitation was a worse emblem of her captivity, after all.

Their conversation dropped off as they neared the club, and stopped entirely as Wallace motioned them through the door with an unwavering, appraising look that clearly found them wanting. Then they were inside, and the rhythm and heat was all around them. Daud's hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back, and as they moved around the edge of the room, towards the bar, he bent his head to comment.

Before he could speak, however, the ex-military member of the conspiracy - _Farley Havelock_ - had shouldered close enough to catch Daud's eye and say, "Just the man I wanted to talk to."

Daud pulled away smoothly, and his hand dropped from her back.

Havelock looked Callista over for a moment, then nodded towards stairs. "Martin's up in his usual booth," he said, then turned his attention fully on Daud. "There's a matter of logistics," he said. His voice was low and Daud left her side without a backwards glance. They were soon lost in the crowd.

So much for an escort.

She considered stopping by the bar first to order a drink, but then remembered with a grimace that she had no ID, no wallet, and no real desire to be caught unawares by any of the people lurking in this place. Besides, Pendleton was sitting by the only empty seat. Instead, she ducked into the crowd, counting on the eventual relief of being free of it to balance out her nerves.

Callista emerged on the other side flushed and ready to go home. This wasn't her world. She'd given up on this sort of life - passionate, exciting, wild - when they cremated her father. It was just too much work.

She climbed the stairs.

Martin rose from his booth as she approached. There were crinkles in the elbows of his uniform, evidence that he'd been wearing it all day. Still, as he shook her hand in greeting, he smelled only of aftershave and whiskey and a faint cologne. Apparently, the day's work hadn't been so horrible in the wake of Campbell's death.

"Shouldn't you be at Holger?" she asked as he shepherded her into the booth.

"Why, what could I do there?" he asked as he sat down across from her, propping a booted foot on the seat and leaning back against the wall. He had a glass of Tyvian red and, as she watched, he poured her one as well. "I've logged my hours for the day."

She couldn't tell if he meant the assassination or an actual day spent in his official capacity. She didn't say anything, and instead took an awkward sip of her wine. It tasted sour.

"And my uncle?" she asked.

"Alive and well, and in a safe place," he said, smiling amiably.

"Where?"

"I'm not going to tell you that," he said, the same smile holding. He drummed the fingers of his free hand against the tabletop as he took a drink. "Mm," he hummed as he pursed his lips, considered the flavor, and swallowed. "How is Miss Kaldwin doing? I heard they were blaring our mutual friend's name in the streets this morning."

"She's-" Callista caught herself before she said _locked herself in her room_, unsure if Daud's privacy measures meant Martin wouldn't know that. "She's concerned," she said at last, "but she won't talk to me about it. I don't know the precise nature of their relationship, to be honest."

"Very close, is my understanding," Martin said, setting his glass down. "According to Daud, she would scream for him, and threaten that he would rescue her. So I'd be on the lookout for escape attempts."

She eyed him over her glass. "Which is why you brought me and Daud to the club?"

He canted his head in concession. "Though last I heard, she had locked herself in her bedroom. Is that correct?"

_Ah_. "Yes. Though I'm not sure her door can be locked from the inside."

"It can't. She did wedge a chair under the handle, though. Tell her not to do that - in case of emergencies, and all."

Callista nodded, her gaze drifting back out over the club. "So is this a night off?" she asked.

"It is."

"And we're at no risk of our mutual friend seeing me?"

"No." Fabric rustled as he sat forward far enough that she could see him in the corner of her eye. "He's doing some... research. On Lord Pendleton's brothers, as well as the Boyle ladies. I told him to return here tomorrow before noon."

"He could take that to mean any time before then."

"Wallace won't let him in."

Callista glanced back, surprised at the confidence in his voice. But Corvo hadn't pulled a gun on Martin, like he had with her. Maybe Martin actually felt like he was totally in control. The slight curve of his lips suggested as much, anyway.

"Is there anything you need, Miss Curnow?" he asked, moving to refill his glass.

"Daud's been taking care of that. I give him shopping lists, and he judges what requests can and can't be filled."

"Does he? Hm." Martin set the bottle down with a dull _thunk_. "He should have been bringing those lists to me." _He's not the one in control here_, his pointed look out at the floor said, _I am_. "Well, as long as you're as comfortable as can be managed, with the circumstances."

"Can I go?"

He looked back at her, frowning. Was he _disappointed_? "You don't enjoy my company?"

"Sorry," she said, "that's-" _not it_ would have been too blatant of a lie, even for her. She sighed and straightened her shoulders, setting down the wine glass. "I'm your prisoner. I'm willing to work for you, but I'm still not going to enjoy socializing. We're on opposite sides of a rather expansive divide, Overseer Martin."

His eyes narrowed, and his finger rubbed against the base of his glass. She held her breath. Martin's hand curled with tension, and he opened to mouth to speak just as a quick, nasaly clearing of the throat announced they had company.

It was Pendleton, with his long, ill-proportioned face. He inclined his head in perfect courtesy to her, then said, "Ah- Martin, it looks like Miss Kaldwin's taken ill."

He shot a quick glance at her, then gave his full attention to Pendleton. "Oh?"

Pendleton was frowning at her. "Is this the tutor? Miss..."

"Curnow," Callista supplied. "Yes."

The man wrinkled his nose. "I still think we should have gone with the woman Esma Boyle hired last spring for her daughter."

"_Pendleton_," Martin growled. "You were _saying_?"

He frowned, then straightened his lapels and pointedly ignored Callista. Frankly, she was grateful for it. "Yes, well, Cecelia was watching the monitors-"

"Where in the Void is Miss Brooklaine?"

"Taking in a new shipment of ale out back," Pendleton said, scowling. Martin's return look, level and unyielding, held a message she couldn't read. "Cecelia was watching the monitors," he resumed, "and has been there since Emily went to bed a few hours ago."

"And?"

"And she's just thrown up," he said, with a pronounced grimace. "She's also piled all her clothing on top of the bed."

Martin swore. "Sick enough to consider sneaking out? Wonderful."

"No," Callista said, rising from her seat. "No, she's probably feverish and thinks she's freezing. She was acting strangely all day, but I thought it was just the news..."

Martin took a deep breath, then waved a hand. "Go on, then. Collect Daud from wherever he is and go make sure she's okay. Let me know if we need to send for a doctor."

* * *

_._

_._

_._

Dust After Rain began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here's the prompt from Chapter 6!

_Something about crinkles in the elbows of his uniform._


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 7**_

Callista held back Emily's hair as the girl heaved again. There was nothing left in her stomach and Emily brought up only a sob and a spasm of her shoulders. Her skin was clammy and burning hot, and her eyes were bloodshot. She trembled against Callista and gripped the edge of the mattress tightly, then with an exhausted whimper sagged down again.

They'd been up for hours. She'd told Daud to send for Martin's doctor forty minutes ago, and had never left Emily's side the whole night. Her nice dress was spotted with sweat and vomit, but she barely noticed as she held a cup of water to Emily's lips.

"Shh, it's okay," she murmured.

"Don't want to," Emily mumbled. "Just going to throw it up again."

"I know, I know. Please, though?"

"Maybe," Emily said as she pushed at the cup, sloshing water onto them both, "maybe if I don't drink then I'll get so dehydrated they'll have to send me to the hospital. Maybe that's my way out." She turned her fever-glazed eyes to Callista, staring up at her with a faint, distant smile. "That's a good idea."

"No, it's not," Callista said, and pressed the cup to her lips again. "I'm sure they've planned for something like this. They'll just take care of you here. The doctor's on his way."

"But how are they going to keep the nurses quiet, and the doctor, and everybody else?" Grudgingly, she took a little sip.

At lunch, Emily had seemed perfectly healthy, if withdrawn. Now, at half past three in the morning, her skin was tinged with grey, her eyes were red, and she'd thrown up at least half a dozen times. Her fever was somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and two. Thinking back, Callista thought she might have been coughing during their otherwise quiet lesson that morning, but it was nothing compared to the deep-chested shudders now coming out of the girl at semi-regular intervals.

"A little more water, Emily," she urged, and the girl, too tired to protest anymore, complied. She let Callista tuck her in. She was long past begging for more blankets, ever since Callista had threatened her with an ice bath.

Callista had a little training in first aid. She'd never been a nanny, exactly, but some of her students had required prolonged care, five or six hours a day, and it had seemed reasonable to get certified in CPR and basic injury treatment. This, though, was beyond her. It had come on so _suddenly_. In a single night, Emily had transformed into every sick relative that she'd watched slip away, and it was hard not to succumb to the old terror, the old resignation.

Callista tried not to frown as she placed a cool compress on Emily's forehead. Her thoughts kept turning back to her conversation with Daud about the plague, and how the only ways for the virus to have come in, whatever it was, were through her or Daud. Emily didn't need to see her guilt, or her fear.

"Do you want me to go get a book? Read to you? Maybe you'll fall asleep then," Callista murmured. Emily had managed two naps, but neither had lasted longer than fifteen minutes. She tossed and turned and thrashed in bed, and she'd already sweated through her sheets.

Emily lifted a hand and waved it over at her shelf. "The book," she said, then yawned and closed her eyes, wrinkling her nose.

Callista glanced over. The only book on her shelf that wasn't a diary was the book on guns Daud had brought her. Hardly appropriate, but given the situation...

She stood and retrieved the book, and was just about to settle down beside Emily again when she heard footsteps on the stairs, and a nasaly voice preceding its owner down the hall. "And what am I supposed to use as an operating theater, if it becomes necessary?"

Daud's gravelly voice rumbled back, "It had better not. But I'll look into it."

"_Operating_?" Emily asked, looking up at Callista with wide, round eyes.

"It's probably just appendicitis," the doctor said. "So yes, it will probably be necessary. And I'll need an aid to help with the anaesthesia. Really, it would be better for everybody if I could see her at my office-"

"You can't," Daud said.

Emily clasped her hands over her belly, and Callista reached out to cover them with her own as the door opened, revealing a very tired, very serious-looking Daud and the doctor, whose disheveled clothing and squinting, blinking, twitching eyes did little to put Emily, or Callista, at ease.

He shoved his spectacles up with one hand and dumped his equipment case by the door. He looked between Callista and Emily, and she thought his eyes lingered slightly too long on her. "Who's _she_?" the doctor asked.

"Callista Curnow, our patient's live-in tutor. Miss Curnow, this is Dr. Joplin." Daud flashed her a quick grimace; he didn't like the squirrely little man, either. "We're to help him with whatever he needs."

"What I _need_ is some room." He flapped his hands at her, and Callista stood up after one last squeeze of Emily's hands.

"No, I want her here!" Emily protested.

"She's not going to make you better," Joplin said, coming over to the bed and removing the compress. He glanced at the bucket by the bedside. "How many times has she thrown up?"

"Six. Maybe seven."

"Has there been any blood?"

Callista shook her head. "None."

Humming, he crouched and reached for Emily, who flinched and pulled away. "Stay still," he muttered.

Emily looked to Callista.

"Please?" Callista asked, and Emily held herself very still and narrowed her eyes as Dr. Joplin took her face in his hands.

"Open your eyes," he said, and Emily opened one of them. The sclera was almost entirely red in places. She shut it again as Joplin felt her forehead, then her pulse.

"Okay," he said, "get out, then."

"No, don't leave me!" Emily said, shaking herself free of the doctor's hands. "I don't want to be alone! Callista-"

"I'll be right outside," she said. "But he's right, I'm not a doctor."

"The door stays open," Daud said.

"Of course," Joplin said, his attention wholly not on Emily, but on whatever illness coursed in her veins. His gaze was strangely focused, and it was only with a great deal of willpower that Callista retreated to the hall, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Daud followed her, then leaned close and whispered, "If you need a shower, or to get changed, let me know. I'll stand watch. I know it's not the same as her seeing you, but it will suffice. I'm at least familiar."

Callista looked up at him and shook her head. "No, I'll stay."

"The offer stands," he said, then took up a post against the other wall.

They stood there through Joplin's examination, as he poked and prodded and drew Emily's blood and asked her when she thought she might next throw up, so that he could analyze her bile. Emily's responses grew more and more frustrated, and every time she called out for Callista, Callista had to bite her tongue and say only, "It'll be over soon, Emily, don't worry."

It lasted well over an hour.

At last, Joplin joined them in the hallway, wiping his hands. "Well," he said, then pursed his lips. "Hm. Well, it's very interesting."

"Get on with it," Daud rumbled.

He plucked his glasses from his face and wiped at them with his shirt. She realized that the buttons and their holes didn't match up; an extra tail of fabric hung down on his left side. "Mm, well. It appears she has the new plague."

Callista's heart fell and her stomach threatened the revolt. "No, she doesn't," she heard herself say. This was like when her aunt had been diagnosed with a brain infection. Three days to live. He'd been fine a day before. _No_.

"Yes, well, it can't be argued. She's got all the symptoms. It'll take a culture to confirm, but I doubt you'll want to waste time."

"What can we do?" Daud asked.

"Tell Martin to get Sokolov in here," Joplin said, shrugging. "He invented the damn thing."

"_What_?" Daud snapped. Callista only stared, eyes round and wide. She felt like she was falling.

Joplin looked between the two of them. "Oh, you didn't know? I assumed Martin would've told you. I told him a week ago. Burrows had Sokolov make a designer virus, and Sokolov was an idiot and agreed to it. And now it's out of hand. I could have told him that would happen, but no. Sokolov thinks he's mastered predicting the outcomes of a living organism. Any sentient being could see that it's currently outside our species' abilities."

Callista felt herself shaking. She leaned heavily against the wall, willing her knees to hold.

"And Sokolov, did he make a cure?"

"He's working on one. He's had a dozen terminal cases brought to him from the hospital near my lab. Thinks I won't notice because he uses one of his dummy corporations. What does he think I am? An idiot?" He settled his glasses back on his nose. "Anyway, you go tell Martin to bring him here. I can treat her well enough, and given a few days, I could probably work out an idiosyncratic cure for her, but he's going to have a better probability of doing it quickly and with fewer side effects."

"What's going to happen? If we don't stop this?" Callista asked, softly.

Joplin regarded her with pursed lips. "_Well_," he said, "soon she'll start coughing more, and she'll have night terrors. She'll get irrational. Probably violent, we've seen that a lot. Eventually she'll have subconjunctival hemorrhage."

Daud cleared his throat. Callista only stared.

"That's bleeding, from the eyes," Piero added, brow furrowing as he pushed up his glasses. "A day or two after that and her internal organs will just be leaking blood and fluids into her interstitial tissues, and..." He cleared his throat, glancing back at Emily's door. Then he looked to Callista and lowered his voice, as if trying to soften the blow. "Well, that'll be that. She's got anywhere from a week to a month for that, though. I think."

"You _think_," Daud said, flatly.

"And how is it transmitted?" Callista asked.

"Fluid transfer, but a lot of people have some natural resilience to it. I'll be monitoring the two of you, as well. I'm assuming one of you tracked it in here."

Callista bowed her head and swallowed, thickly.

"Right, well, you- Daud. Go get Martin. Do whatever it is you do." He flapped a bony hand at Daud, not looking at him. "And Miss Curnow, before I start treatment, can I bother you for some tea?"

"Of course," she said.

Daud was trying to stare Joplin down, but the doctor seemed too distracted to notice. At last, Daud took a deep breath. "I'll be back within the hour," he said, then disappeared down the stairs.

"I'll be down in a moment, Dr. Joplin," she said. "Let me get Emily to bed as best I can?"

"Right, right."

As he meandered down the hall, murmuring to himself, Callista edged back towards Emily's door. The girl was asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly in rhythm with the light rain that was beginning to pelt against the window. She'd already tangled the sheets around her legs again. Callista tiptoed into the room and gently drew the sheets straight and over her, then stroked her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I keep hurting you, each time worse than the last. I'll make sure I make this all right."

Emily didn't respond except to turn over onto her side.

Callista straightened with a sigh and left the room, turning off the light and leaving the door cracked. Exhausted, she dragged herself downstairs and put on the electric kettle without checking to see where Joplin had planted himself. She was sealing the tops of two silk steeping bags when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. She turned. On the great windows, she could just make out raindrops-

Sliding up along the glass.

Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, and she turned in a circle, scanning the room. Daud hadn't returned. Where was Joplin? Could he see this happening? She opened her mouth to call his name.

Then she saw him, standing by the window, draped in shadows. As if sensing her gaze, he turned to look at her in the low light.

His eyes were black pits, and he smiled.

Her body gave up. She sank back against the counter and counted breaths and tried not to scream. Daud wasn't here to help her. Emily didn't need to worry. She stared at not-Joplin as he approached, light appearing to bend around him to avoid his path. He checked his cuffs and plucked at his shirt as if in curiosity, and then propped his elbow on the kitchen island and pillowed his head in his hand, watching her.

"So many potentials," the Outsider said, head tilting to one side. With it underneath Joplin's skin, the sickly, weedy man instead looked unsettling and inhuman. The hollow eyes didn't help. The way his lips curled as he spoke chilled her blood, and his voice hummed with unfamiliar harmonies. "And yet each time you reach a branching point, you pick the smallest option. You pick the chance no man would ever wager on. You could have slit Daud's throat, the night you found him asleep at his desk. I left him there for you. I would have _delighted_ in it. Or you could have thrown yourself off Kaldwin's Bridge that night as you made your long journey to the home he took from you. You could have told Corvo where little Emily was and saved yourself a world of trouble - he would have let you live, you know."

He paused, blinking slowly. Then he smiled again.

"But you didn't do any of that."

"It didn't make sense to," she breathed.

"No? I can't quite predict you, Callista Curnow. You are equal parts vicious courage and terrified self-consciousness. You have forgotten that your spine is made of steel, and you don't want to remember.

"You have such a small part to play in all of this, and yet you're fascinating all the same. You've got my attention."

"And if I don't want it?" Her hands trembled. Her bones trembled. Her eyes were wide enough to make the architecture of her face hurt, and still she recoiled.

"There's always death. Contrary to so many of your _amusing_ stories, I don't follow you there. I gave Daud that option, as well. I told him to kill himself, if he was so angered by my visits. I even suggested he take you with him. Then I wouldn't have been interested at all."

With a shudder, she remembered how Daud had looked at her that night by the window. Confused, surprised- considering.

And them embarrassed, maybe even frightened.

She licked at her lips, then managed, "What are you?"

"You know my name. I know you found that book tonight. Serendipitous, wouldn't you say?"

"How are you inside of him?"

The Outsider looked down at his skinsuit. "It's a long standing arrangement, one that he doesn't know about. I give him ideas in his dreams. In return, I get to use his eyes every so often. Are you frightened, Callista Curnow?"

She nodded.

"I can't hurt you," he said. "I just watch. And sometimes give encouragement. Like the mark on Daud's hand."

_He _**_is_**_ marked_. She remembered his gloved hands on her, the pull of shadows all around him. She swallowed thickly.

"And on Corvo Attano's. You didn't even know to look for it. Did you even see it? Did you think it was a prison tattoo?"

"Corvo?" she whispered. No, she hadn't seen it at all.

"How did you think he'd gotten out of Coldridge? Pure luck or force of will?" He smiled, and the lighting and her nerves conspired to make his teeth look jagged. "Though he has more than enough of the latter." Slowly, he pushed off from the island and strolled around to her. He seemed to shift, from Joplin's body to the form of the young man she'd seen in the window and back again.

"Why are you _here_?" she asked, pressing herself flush to the counter. A bruise in her hip reminded her of Daud's self-defense lessons, but she couldn't make herself move, not towards the inhuman creature stalking towards her. She couldn't imagine catching his weight in her arms and redirecting their momentum.

She couldn't imagine touching him.

"I told you. I'm interested. Some people have such great potential for chaos." He came close enough that she could see how Joplin's eyes were warped and clouded. She was staring into them when she felt his fingers graze her hand. She jerked away, but not before he caught hold of her wrist.

"You're not one of them, Callista Curnow," he said. "I don't want you to bear my Mark. But you're at the confluence of some very chaotic events, and while the decisions you make will pale in comparison to those of Corvo, or even Daud, you could tilt the whole axis of the world in a hundred different directions. So you have my attention."

"What will that mean?" she asked, trying to yank her hand free.

His grip never wavered. "Just that. You have my attention." His lips curled again.

And then his eyes shut and his body shuddered, and it was just Dr. Joplin holding her hand and opening his eyes to stare, confused, at her haunted expression.

"Miss Curnow?" The added echoes of his voice were gone. The rain ran down the windows again.

She took her hand back as if burned. Dr. Joplin didn't try to hold onto her, and she sidled out from between him and the counter. "I was just getting that tea ready for you. Why don't you, ah, sit down?"

"Were we speaking? Before?" He looked down at his hand, turned it this way and that. "I apologize, sometimes my mind wanders..."

"You were checking my pulse," she said, leaning awkwardly over the counter to retrieve the mugs and kettle, which must have whistled a while ago. "Making sure I wasn't symptomatic."

"Your pulse wouldn't show it yet," Joplin murmured, "unless you're having symptoms?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Do you take milk or sugar with your tea, Dr. Joplin?"

Joplin shook his head. "Call me Piero," he added.

Even in his own skin, he didn't seem to fully understand personal space. She retreated again, kettle and mug in hand, towards the sink.

He followed a few steps, and she eyed him warily as she fastened his infuser and poured the decently-warm water over it. His gaze traveled from her hands to her shoulders to her chest, and only grudgingly to her face. She set her expression.

"Pardon me the intrusion," he began, and she prepared herself for comments on her youth or how she should smile, "but what is it like, taking care of offspring not your own?"

Callista frowned and turned her head to stare at him more openly. "Excuse me?"

His gaze wavered around her own as he avoided eye contact. "You're not only a teacher to Miss Kaldwin, correct? You also serve as her primary caretaker?"

"To a point." She set the kettle aside. "I'm not a surrogate mother, if that's what you're asking. She's her own person."

"Yes, yes, I understand that - especially since you've only been here for a month, yes? - but does the association..." He mulled the words over. "Does being around her effect any _changes_ in you?"

"I don't think I understand." _Or like where this is going_.

"Does it awaken particular maternal instincts or responses?" he asked, leaning forward.

Callista stepped back. The peculiar focus in his eyes was unsettling. No, worse than unsettling - it made her skin crawl as much as the Outsider had, if not more, and she could feel her cheeks heating with embarrassment.

He licked his lips before continuing, "Many mammals show strong urges to adopt orphaned young, even across species. Class lines should be no different. I know that in times of disaster, young pre-parturient women have been known to begin lactating when confronted with an imbalance of infants to nursing mothers. Miss Kaldwin is, of course, too old to excite that particular response, but-"

Callista went very still. "Please stop talking."

He frowned a little, as if confused. "I mean all of this in the most respectful way, of course. I'm simply curious-"

Her reddened flush had died down to a cold, blank pallor. "_Please_ stop talking."

Piero wrung his hands together, stealing glances at the firm line of her lips. "Y-you seem very natural with her. It's- biologically very enticing to a reproductively-minded male-"

"_This conversation is over_, Dr. Joplin," she said, "or you will find how naturally _repellant_ hot tea is when applied to the face. And how easy it is to turn you into a _non_-reproductive male."

For half a second she entertained explaining that Emily was not a daughter to her - that she was a younger reflection - but that would only have encouraged the good doctor. Instead, she stared him down until he mumbled something and turned away with his tea.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Daud returned sometime after five, just as dawn began to break, and they sat together and watched the sun rise over the city while Piero turned the kitchen into a makeshift lab to run tests on Emily's blood. Martin had assured Daud that Sokolov would be in their hands as soon as he got ahold of Corvo, which wasn't soon enough or exact enough to set Callista's nerves at ease. Emily had woken up once, to dry heave and have a bit of water, and Callista dreaded the coming day.

"You should try sleeping," Daud said. "A few hours, at least."

Callista glanced over to Piero, who stood stooped over a microscope on the kitchen island. "Only if you guard my door."

Daud frowned and followed her gaze. "... Did something happen?"

Callista looked at him levelly, then sighed and shook her head, leaning back heavily in her chair. "He's disgusting."

_He's also a conduit for the Outsider_.

"He can do his tests somewhere else," Daud said, starting to rise, and she quickly sat up and waved him back into his seat.

"No, I want him here in case Emily gets worse."

"You have a far better bedside manner."

"He has more education."

"Education isn't worth everything."

"It's also not worth _nothing_," Callista said, running a hand over her face. "I was kidding, too. About the guarding my door."

"You can stay in my room," he said, standing up. "It locks from the inside."

She stared up at him. "I was _kidding_."

"I'm not. My offer stands. I'll keep an eye on him, and Emily, and you can get some rest. I'll wake you if we need you. But you need to sleep, somewhere."

Callista worried at her lip. It seemed silly and childish to be afraid of sleeping in her own room. And if Piero had only been an awkward pervert with no sense of boundaries, it_ would_ have been silly and childish. But she remembered his hollow eyes, and the way he - _it_, wearing his skin - had taken her hand, and suddenly she was too afraid to even step into the bathroom. A locked door sounded better, and she kept her thoughts away from how doors must pose no impediment to a being who could manifest in mirrors.

"Sure," she said at last. "If you're really okay with it."

"I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

"I'll only manage a few hours," she said as she pushed herself out of her chair.

"A few hours is good enough," he said. She followed him over to one of the doors she'd never been able to budge. Piero didn't look up from his work. "If you do sleep for longer, when do you want me to wake you up by?"

Callista glanced at the clock as Daud slipped a key from an inside pocket of his (now rumpled) suit jacket. "Noon, I guess. But I bet I'll be up by nine at the latest. And if Emily gets worse, or if she asks for me-"

"Of course," he said, and unlocked the door, pushing it open smoothly.

She looked at him with pursed lips. "Why are you doing this? Offering me a place to stay, teaching me to fight? Beyond being allies, I mean. You never struck me as- well." Her gaze slipped from him, and she clasped her hands, nervously. "As the caring type."

"I care a great deal," he said, hand still on the doorknob. "Someday, I might tell you about... before all this. But I can assure you, I've cared a great deal about a great many people."

"The other people who worked for you?" she asked, looking up. _The ones who are dead_?

Daud nodded, a flicker of pain crossing his face as he tilted his head toward the room. "Sleep well, Miss Curnow."

She took a step in, then hesitated and looked back. "You can call me Callista, you know."

He spared her a faint smile, then closed the door.

Callista stood staring at it for a moment, then reached out and flipped the latch. After a moment's thought, she flipped the deadbolt she found as well. Then she turned back to the shadowed room and looked around.

Like the rest of the penthouse, it was painted in whites and blacks. The furniture was pure modern elegance. The bed was narrow, as was the room, but the windows at the far end stretched from floor to ceiling, giving the illusion of flight or falling. She reached out to put a hand on the wall. The room had none of the messiness of his office, and looked sterile, like nobody had ever lived here. She doubted he came here often. There was, however, a nightstand surrounded by stacks of books, and a small writing desk with a few pieces of paper. She ignored them, as well as the open closet where several suits and shirts and ties hung. She ignored, too, the small door that likely led to a private bath. Instead, she pulled off her tights and, after a moment's thought, her stained dress, and climbed into bed.

The sheets were crisp, as if they'd been ironed, and the pillow only had a few shed hairs on it. It smelled a little of Daud, but mostly of soap and detergent. Strange.

With a pang, she realized that he likely slept in his office most nights, slumped in his chair, brain buzzing from the effort of fighting off the Outsider's words.

Turning over, she pressed her cheek to the pillow and closed her eyes.

* * *

_._

_._

_._

Dust After Rain began as a series of drabbles, prompted by Taokan. It quickly got out of hand! But for the first several chapters, I still received regular prompts from Taokan to help me along.

Here's the prompt from Chapter 7!

_Light bent away from him, as if trying to avoid his gaze._


	8. Chapter 8

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

_Also, this coming week's posting schedule will be a little different - you'll be getting chapter 9 on Sunday, and chapter 10 on Monday. You'll see why at the end of this chapter._

* * *

_**Chapter 8**_

She awoke to knocking. As she squinted at the sunlight coming in through the vast window, the knocking grew more frantic, more urgent. "Hold on," she mumbled, and almost rolled over and went back to sleep.

"_Callista_," Daud's voice came through the door, urgent and firm. "Open the damn door!"

_Daud_.

She was in Daud's bed. Emily was sick. The sun outside the window looked far too high for it to be anything earlier than noon. Daud continued knocking. Callista ripped off the blankets and hurried to the door, then stopped halfway there, arms curling around her near-nakedness. She turned back to her discarded clothing.

She didn't want to put the dress back on. It reeked. Grimacing, she turned to the door again. "I'm awake," she called. "Uh- I need a change of clothing. So I can't open the door."

He was silent for a moment, no longer knocking. "I'll be right back," he said. She could hear footsteps retreating, no doubt a courtesy.

Chewing at her lip, Callista busied herself with making his bed and gathering up her soiled clothing. Soon, there was another knock on the door, this time a sharp, perfunctory rap. "I'm leaving fresh clothes outside the door. I'm going to turn around now. Joplin is upstairs."

She scurried to the door and undid the deadbolt, realized the main lock was already disengaged, then stooped as she cracked the door open. He'd brought her what looked like her dress pants and a nice blouse. _Not_ what she'd have picked for caring for a sick child, but he hadn't exactly stolen her sweats for her when he'd gone through her apartment. She dragged the clothes back through the door and shut it, then hurriedly got dressed.

"Is there an emergency?" she asked as she fastened the fly on her slacks. "Is Emily okay?"

"She's stable," Daud said.

"You unlocked the door."

"You deadbolted it."

"It made me feel safer. Is there an emergency?" She tugged the knit blouse over her head, and reached for the doorknob. Daud didn't respond, so she opened it to find him standing close by, looking away from her with one of his hands curled tightly into a fist. At the faint whisper of the hinges, he looked up at her.

"... No," he said, grimacing. "It's just one in the afternoon, and I've been trying to wake you up for an hour. Miss Curnow, I thought..."

_One in the afternoon_? She waited.

His gaze drifted behind her, to her discarded clothing sitting by the foot of his bed. He glanced away quickly.

"What?" she asked.

"I thought maybe the plague had come upon you. Joplin said it was a possibility, though a very small one." His lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line as he spoke. He clearly wasn't proud of his paranoia, so she left him to it, turning to gather up her clothing. She didn't want to see his discomfort.

"So, the wash is where?" she asked.

"Leave it," he said as she crouched down. "I'll take care of it. Get yourself some lunch."

"You really do the laundry?" she asked, peering up at him.

"Somebody has to," he said, "and you'll forgive me for not trusting Emily not to fill the whole house with suds."

She smiled a little. He shifted uncomfortably. "Lunch, Miss Curnow," he said, and she rose and slipped out of the room.

The kitchen was no longer covered with equipment, and she paused, glancing back at him.

"I made him move it all. It's now set up in the classroom."

"Is there any chance of contagions lingering?"

"There had better not be," he said. "If you're concerned, though, there are sterile face masks in the bathroom. Help yourself." And with that, he disappeared into his room.

She made herself toast with orange juice, and ate slowly, fighting the urge to rush upstairs and check on Emily. If Emily hadn't called for her yet, she was probably tired and needed rest. And Callista needed to eat - it had been well over twelve hours since she'd had anything in her stomach at all - and then let it settle enough that being in the sickroom wouldn't bring it all back up.

_One in the afternoon_. Had she really slept for seven hours? Had it really only _been_ seven hours? She scrubbed her hands over her face and ran her hands through her hair, no longer in its bun. She'd been sure she wouldn't be able to sleep, and that Daud's knocking would have roused her.

Somewhere in the background, what sounded like a washing machine thrummed to life. She didn't hear footsteps on the stairs, but that didn't mean anything.

* * *

Emily was stable, but no better. Callista took up a post by her bed, and when Piero was out of the room - which wasn't often enough for her comfort - she read to Emily not out of the book on guns, but out of a book of old fairytales. She skipped the cautionary stories about the Outsider and about princesses locked away in towers, but that still left a fair number of animal farces and legends of wishes gone awry. Emily, dehydrated and disoriented and exhausted, seemed to appreciate being treated like a child.

Callista knew she'd always relished the times she'd fallen ill, because it meant she didn't have to be the strong one. Eventually she'd start to worry that maybe this was her time, that she'd be the next to die, but for a while it would always be a peculiar kind of bliss, being taken care of.

She tried to keep Emily in that space. When Piero attempted to speak with her about the severity of Emily's situation, she stared him down and pointedly changed the subject. When Piero mentioned sending for saline and starting an IV, Callista assured Emily it was just to make sure she wouldn't have to drink more water. Emily was happy about that. When Emily asked her what was wrong, why was her brow so furrowed, Callista fluffed her pillow and told her that a good nurse had to be concerned for her patient.

It had to be enough.

She was reading a story about a mermaid and a whaler off the coast of Tyvia, where the ocean turned to ice and the merfolk would stretch out on top of the floes to catch the fleeting hours of winter sunlight, when she heard a new set of footsteps approaching the room.

It was well after sundown, and Callista squinted into the dim light of the hallway. There was Daud's broad frame, and she could hear Piero nattering on. There was a third person in the hallway, tall with a shaggy outline.

Dr. Sokolov, she hoped. She fought down a surge of anger. _He'd_ made this illness that was draining away all of Emily's color and life. In a split second, she felt more white-hot rage for him than she'd ever felt for Daud, even as Emily had sobbed about how he'd butchered her mother.

"Why'd you stop?" Emily mumbled, blinking blearily at her. Her eyes were wholly red now, and her pupils remained fully dilated at all times. Callista wasn't sure how much she could see, but she didn't want to ask. As long as neither talked about it, Callista could keep the fear under control.

"Your other doctor is here," Callista said. "He's very good at treating what you have."

"I don't want another doctor," Emily said, scrunching up into a ball and pulling the blankets up over her head. "Tell him to go away."

"He's going to make you feel better," Callista said. "No more throwing up."

For a long moment Emily didn't move or speak. Then the bundle beneath the blankets shifted. "I'd like that," came the muffled response.

Callista grimaced, then glanced to the door. The new doctor - Sokolov - was standing there, turned to argue in hushed tones with Piero. He was tall and lanky, with a hooked nose and shaggy dark hair and a beard. He also sported a sickly green bruise across his cheek and jaw, and his nose was swollen, his lip split. Corvo had apparently not been kind.

_Corvo_.

What would he think, if he ever found out about this?

She swallowed, and rose to her feet. "Dr. Sokolov?"

He paused in his argument and glanced at her, appraisingly.

"Out," he said.

Callista frowned. _Not again_. "No, I stay."

"You'll be in the way."

"Put me to work. I'm staying." She shot a glare at Piero, who hovered behind Sokolov with his mouth open to comment. "I'm the person most familiar with your patient. She's delirious half the time. I'm _staying_."

Sokolov considered her. "Can you do a subcutaneous injection?"

"... No."

"Take pulse with attention paid to the dimensions of the rhythm?"

She fought the urge to squirm. "No. I have no medical training."

"Then I can't very well put you to work, now _can_ I?" he sneered, his lips curling in something between annoyance and arrogant amusement.

"I can wash equipment, fetch things you need, hold her hair back when she vomits... keep her company. I'm useful. I'm- I'm staying." Her voice was beginning to falter.

He snorted, then turned away, setting out his own case and selecting his tools with slow, aching movements.

_What did they tell Corvo to get him to bring this man here_? They hadn't mentioned Emily, surely. But what had Martin told Corvo, exactly? Sokolov had been allowed to bring his case. Did Corvo know that _somebody _had the plague?

"Wish I had a cleanroom," Sokolov muttered to nobody in particular.

She swallowed and glanced between him and Piero, hovering in the doorway. Daud lurked behind him. She caught his eye. He didn't quite smile, but he did incline his head.

She felt a little stronger for it.

* * *

Three hours later, Emily knew she had the plague. She was too out of it to respond, but with Piero and Sokolov's incessant arguing and theorizing over her, as if she were only a lab specimen, there was no way for Callista to keep her safe.

Exhausted, Callista left the room for some breathing space. The sickroom was tight and close and she had half a mind to demand Daud to let her into his office because she knew the windows there opened and she could get some air.

At the staircase, though, she just slumped against the wall and tugged down her face mask. The cool air of the apartment began to dry the sweat and steam that had accumulated around her nostrils and above her lip. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to scrub at her face. She'd already discarded her latex gloves in the biohazard bin Piero had brought, but she still desperately wanted a wash. They'd all be vaccinated as soon as Sokolov figured out which exact strain Emily had, but that could be days in coming.

Daud cleared his throat at the foot of the stairs.

"Just because you slept last night doesn't mean you don't have to sleep tonight," he said.

One corner of her mouth twitched up. "What, are you _my_ nanny now?"

He huffed, shrugged. "Forget I asked."

Callista looked down. Her nice slacks were wrinkled, though not stained this time, and she could already feel herself beginning to tremble with exhaustion. _Emily, with the plague_. From Sokolov's and Piero's discussions, she'd gathered that the plague was far, far worse than she'd thought, and spreading far more rapidly. And she'd brought it in.

"Stop that," Daud said.

Her head jerked up. "Stop what?"

"That look. Guilt. This isn't your fault."

"You don't know what I'm thinking," she said, even as she wrapped her arms defensively around her waist.

"I've seen that exact expression staring back at me in every mirror I've passed for the last nine months, Callista," he said. The sound of her given name was a shock, and it riveted her attention to him. He'd reverted to _Miss Curnow_ after her wake-up call, but now his voice was quiet and his tone intimate. "This isn't your fault."

Her brow furrowed. "I probably brought it in with me."

"You? You've been out _twice_ since you got here. The first time, I collected your clothing as soon as you were in bed and washed it all thoroughly. You barely came in contact with anything in the whole apartment. The second time, I was with you the whole way. And I've been out far more times than _that_. Statistics suggest it was _me_, not you. Or it was one of the things I brought her."

"But I asked for those gifts."

"_Don't_." He ascended a few steps. "There are enough things to feel guilty about in life. Don't add fictional ones. I'm sure there's a hundred things you've done that you regret that you were _actually_ responsible for; this isn't one of them, so don't add its weight to all the rest."

His words struck deep, sliding in beneath layers of armor and fear and firm self-control. He _saw_ her, understood - at least a little - and the thought was momentarily overwhelming. She bit her lip as her eyes began to prickle and burn. Were those blood vessels in her sclera beginning to burst, or were they tears at the ready?

Daud didn't look away, even as he frowned and reached for a pocket in his suit jacket. He withdrew a faintly buzzing phone and tapped the screen, then held it to his ear.

"Yes?" He waited a moment, eyes still on her. "You're better off asking Miss Curnow. Yes, I understand. I'm keeping an eye on all of them."

And then Daud held the phone out to her.

Frowning, she took it. "Yes?"

"Miss Curnow," Martin said, against a backdrop of tinny music and shaking staticy bass. She could barely make out the words. "I want an update. How are things?"

"Do you mean about Emily?"

Daud at last looked away, and Callista leaned heavily against the wall, free hand on the beginning of the bannister.

"Yes," Martin said, and she could imagine his slight frown in perfect detail.

"She has the plague, Martin," she sighed. "How do you think things are?"

She thought she heard him curse. "Are they making progress?"

"She's throwing up less." It was true. The tightness in her throat made her less inclined to answer in more detail. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"Just tell me everything."

Callista frowned. "Where's Corvo?"

"That's irrelevant." The sharp edge to his voice said otherwise. It prodded at her exhaustion and her fear and her guilt, and her fingers curled tightly around the phone.

"He's there, isn't he?"

Daud shot her a warning glare. She held up her other hand.

"Miss Curnow," Martin said, so soft she could barely hear it, "please give me an update."

"An update on _who_, Overseer Martin? There are a lot of people in this apartment right now."

"_Miss Curnow_-"

"I need a name, Overseer Martin," she replied, and it came out as something startlingly close to a purr. She could imagine him fuming, with Corvo lurking close by, and if she could just get him to say Emily's _name_, this whole thing would come crashing down-

Daud closed the space between them and snatched the phone from her. For a brief, panic-stricken second, she thought he'd smash it to pieces against the wall like he had hers, but he only pressed it to his ear.

"Her fever's a little lower, she hasn't vomited since Sokolov gave her an injection about half an hour ago, her eyes are still bloodshot, and she's disoriented. Progress is being made, but it's slow." His lips curled into a snarl. "Yes, she'll be taken care of. Have a good rest of your evening, _Overseer_." And then he hung up, and stared at Callista.

She lifted her chin a little, even as the adrenaline in her veins made her tremble.

"That was reckless," he said.

And then he smiled.

It faded quickly, though, and he climbed to the top of the steps. "He wants me to discipline you for that, though. In case you didn't catch that bit."

She went rigid. "Oh?"

"I'm not going to," he said, "but he does have cameras, so... forgive me?"

He reached out and snatched her upper arm, dragging her roughly behind him down the steps and across the living room floor. She yelped and fought back, prying at his hand. Half of it was for show. The other half was a real, unexpected flare of terror, putting her right back in the alleyway where she couldn't protect herself.

Daud didn't let go until they reached one of the other doors she'd never opened, and then it was only so he could unlock the door and shove her through. She stumbled and nearly fell, but before she could lose the last of her balance, Daud had her by the shoulder and was righting her- gently.

She glared at him as he shut the door.

"No cameras in here," he said with a shrug. "We can leave it up to his imagination exactly what I'm doing to you. I could've slammed you into the wall, you know."

"Sometimes I forget," she said, rubbing at her arm, "that you're a seasoned killer."

He snorted. "Don't ever forget that, Miss Curnow." He ran a hand through his hair, slightly mussed now, and for the first time she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. She thought back over the last two days.

"... Have _you_ slept?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.

He shot her a weary look. "No."

"Maybe you should consider it," she said, lightly, then glanced around. The room had no bed in it, or even a padded mat. It was apparently just a supply room. A supply room full of weapons, ammo, and... bottles of cleaning solution and laundry detergent.

He followed her gaze. "The arsenal is mostly Martin's doing. The rest is mine. He wanted me to be prepared, but he never fully considered what that meant." He leaned back against one black-painted wall, crossing his legs at the ankle.

"Sleep," she reminded him.

"Not enough room in here," he pointed out. "And I have two dangerous scientists in my house right now, and a room to guard while _you_ sleep."

The thought of Sokolov and Piero made her look towards the door. "I should be back in there, with Emily."

"_You_ should be asleep."

"It's your turn," she said, shaking her head. "And Emily needs me."

"Martin needs to believe I'm doing my job."

"Going to rough me up some more, then?" She meant for it to come out challenging. Instead, it came out fearful.

He winced.

"No," he said. "I'm not. I put on a show, that's it. I'm as horrible a man as Emily makes me out to be, but I do have a little bit of respect left."

She looked him over, then sighed and slid down against the wall. "Right. So how long are we in here for?"

Daud shrugged. "Another ten minutes. Twenty. I might leave you in here alone a few times, and let it go longer. I-"

His phone beeped. He swore and jerked it out of his pocket, staring at it. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Martin," he said, then looked at the door. "He's on his way up."

* * *

"At least it wasn't Corvo," Daud murmured in her ear.

Callista fought down a grimace. They hovered in the hallway, staring in at Emily's sickroom, where Martin stood with a mask over his face and an otherwise gentle and solicitous expression - that was entirely faked. Emily peered up at him through a face puffy with crying. Sokolov had assured Callista, before Martin had arrived, that it was all from throwing up and being tired and a hundred other sick-child reasons, but she didn't entirely trust him.

She trusted Martin even less. He crouched by the bed and spoke softly, and she tried to remember if they'd ever told Emily who _exactly_ the man responsible for everything was.

She didn't think they had. Emily hadn't believed her when she said Daud worked for a mastermind, and so Emily had no reason to think that _this_ was that man.

"She doesn't even know to hate him," Callista said.

"It's better that way," Daud said, dryly. He was standing close to her, likely for Martin's benefit: the perfect picture of controlling vigilance. It had the added effect of letting them talk, and of making her feel a little less adrift in the maelstrom. "This way, if Martin actually succeeds, it won't feel like she's being passed from one jailor to another."

"Not immediately, anyway," Callista sighed, remembering their discussion in his office the other day. "But she's clever. She'll realize what's going on."

"And if Martin returns her to Corvo, at the end of this? If he pulls of that part?"

Callista frowned, shooting a pointed glance at him. "Chances of that are..."

"Miniscule, but real. He might judge it the safest option. Especially if he thinks his leash on Corvo will hold - or he finds a way to muzzle him."

She wrapped her arms around her waist and pursed her lips, looking down at the carpet. Did Daud know about Corvo's Mark? Maybe that would change his calculations. Or maybe it would just make him see death in every corner.

"We'll find a way out," he murmured. "Just keep moving forward."

She couldn't stop her snort. "You, telling _me_ to keep moving forward?"

He canted his head.

"I think I'm a bit better at it than you are," she pointed out. "I have more experience with just- _moving forward_. Meanwhile, you're here wallowing in-"

"Deserved guilt."

She grimaced and didn't bother arguing. Hallways outside of sickrooms were always centers for bickering, but she was tired of it, very tired. And as she watched, Martin straightened up and tucked Emily in a little more, then turned to the doctors. He said something too quietly for her to hear, before his gaze passed over Piero's shoulder and found her.

He didn't look happy. She swallowed and looked down.

Martin turned back to Sokolov. A few more words were exchanged, and then the three men shuffled out into the hall, and Martin pulled the door closed but for a crack. He crossed his arms and looked at everybody in turn.

"Well?" he asked. "Is it fixable, and can we keep it from happening again?"

"We should talk about this downstairs," Callista said. "Leave Emily to rest."

He gave her a withering look, then shrugged. "Very well. I could use some coffee."

They marched down to the living room, and Callista busied herself making coffee so she didn't have to listen to the doctors going over Emily's symptoms in excruciating detail. When she was younger, Callista had been obsessed with medical terminology and mystery illnesses, thinking that if she could just understand it all, she could control it. She knew better now.

She could still hear bits and pieces, though:

"... impossible to prevent spread unless you want to install a decontamination room..."

"... food would still be an issue..."

"... vaccines will be effective only against this current mutation and a few others I've identified..."

"... Burrows is a damn fool..."

As she moved to the fridge for milk, she glanced at the stairs, half-expecting to see Emily there in her nightclothes, pale and weak and frightened. The stairs were empty.

"... we'll know by tomorrow if the treatment is taking; if it's not, she'll begin experiencing subconjunctival hemorrhages..."

"... it can't really be moving that quickly, can it?..."

"... youth and prolonged stress are both factors for weakened immune systems..."

She filled a tray with steaming mugs of coffee and little dishes of cream and sugar, nudging everything until it was just so. She'd never been a great hostess - that had always been Geoff's sister's job - but she could mimic it well enough if it gave her something to distract herself with. She brought the tray over to the dinner table. Daud was the only one to look up as she set it down.

"I really think," Piero was saying, "that she has at least another four or five days before she begins bleeding from the eyes."

Callista grimaced.

"I believe _I'm_ more familiar with the nature of this virus than you are, Joplin," Sokolov said, glaring. "This is an atypical presentation."

"Yes, atypical, which means you don't have any idea either."

"The vomiting shouldn't have started until almost a week after the coughing. This is clearly an exponentially-accelerated case."

"That somehow is also incredibly _not_ virulent, as Miss Curnow so far shows no symptoms," Piero said, waving a spoon.

"Miss Curnow," Sokolov said as he pointedly did not look at her, "is not under the same stressors as the patient."

"No," Daud said, "she's only been violently kidnapped, held in captivity with barely an explanation, expected to be decent and kind... and all this after she also walked sixteen miles across the city barefoot, found out her last living family member was likely dead, found out he was alive but beyond her reach, and then returned to her imprisonment because she had nowhere else to go." His lips curled. "No, she's clearly not stressed at all."

Callista froze. Daud's words had started out nonchalant, but that last sentence had dripped with bitterness. Slowly, she glanced up at Martin.

His expression seemed even stormier than usual.

"That's all accurate, isn't it, Miss Curnow?" Daud asked.

"It is," she said, and straightened up, smoothing her hands over her thighs. "Though I would agree with Dr. Sokolov that it isn't the same kind of stress that Emily is experiencing."

"It's too short-term," Sokolov said, with a satisfied nod. "Right now, Miss Curnow's body is experiencing a sharp uptick in her immune system's processing, along with her ability to perceive and calculate risk. Eventually this additional activity will burn her out, but she isn't there yet. Miss Kaldwin, on the other hand, has been in a prolonged state of stress and fear since the death of her mother. She has long passed the point where her body has simply given up."

Callista grimaced. That sounded about right.

A chair scraped across the floor, and she looked up to see Martin standing. When the doctors started to get up as well, he waved them back down. "Enjoy your coffee," he said, then fixed his gaze on Callista. "I need to speak with Miss Curnow privately. Daud, I'll be using your office."

Daud grunted noncommittally in response.

Callista looked to him for some sort of support, and found nothing but stony, carefully cultivated indifference.

With a leaden lump growing in her throat, she followed Martin to Daud's office. He pulled a key from his uniform's pocket, then opened the door and motioned her inside.

The door shut behind him. He clicked the lock, and looked her over from head to toe. "Daud will be getting you more appropriate clothing in the morning," he said.

She scowled. "Really? Is this really the time for that?"

"You seem to be making a few mistakes in your analysis of the situation," he said, voice soft. "I allow you a certain amount of freedom. That freedom does not include attempting to sabotage me in front of a dangerous madman."

"So Corvo _was_ there," she said, lips twisting briefly with a wicked flare of triumph.

"Yes, about three feet away," he said. "He suspects something is off. And as I have _told_ you, Miss Curnow, if he finds out that Emily is here, he will slaughter you. And he will not be merciful. I don't want to have to tell you what he did to the High Overseer."

"But Emily-"

"Will then be in the care of a man who boldly wears the Mark of the Outsider on his hand, who doesn't care about stealth or subtlety, who would tear the whole city down, burn it, and dance in its ashes. He is not a good man, Curnow. He is a powerful one, and a useful one, but he is _dangerous_."

"So are you," she said.

"I have self-control."

Her lips curled in disgust. "_Self-control_. Yes, you're very in control of your ambitions. The High Overseer is dead. I assume you're angling for his seat?"

Martin scowled and tugged at the cuff of his uniform. "The Feast of Painted Kettles begins tomorrow. Things are in motion."

"And what will happen when they find out that you're employing an escaped convict with the _Mark of the Outsider on his hand_?"

He stiffened. "The Outsider is an old fairy story."

"Then why was it the first detail you pointed out, in telling me how dangerous he is?"

"Because he sees no problem with heresy! With old, false gods who promote only chaos! It is the meaning in the symbol, not any mystical power." The way he grimaced suggested otherwise.

Callista curled her hands into fists.

If she got ahold of him, snapped his neck... and her gun was in the top drawer, if Daud had already moved it. She could shoot him through the heart. Through the head. And how would he call his Overseers?

Daud could get Emily, and they could _run_.

Her eyes darted to the desk. How could she get over there without making him suspect-

The lock clicked open. Daud opened the door without a knock.

"We have a visitor," he said.

Martin went very still, just as the elevator doors juddered shut and descended towards the lobby. Somebody had called for it. Callista let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, backpedaling and sagging against Daud's desk. She'd thought- for a second, she'd thought-

She'd thought of killing Martin. She'd imagined the Outsider materializing inside of Piero Joplin. She'd thought of so many things. How close was she to burning out?

"Who the _fuck_ is it?" Martin demanded, as Daud shut the door. "If it's Corvo-"

"It's not, and I doubt he'd use the elevator," Daud said, dryly. "It's Lydia Boyle."

Callista's head jerked up. Martin stared.

"Apparently," Daud continued, "this is the night for house guests. Do you have any idea why she might be coming here? Or why she still has a keycard for the elevator?"

Martin's lips worked, but no sound came out. His face had gone pale and rigid. "I have a theory. About the first. As to the second, she isn't _supposed_ to. But I'm somehow not surprised she has a copy she didn't tell me about."

The elevator shaft whirred as the box slowly began its ascent.

"Do you want me out?" Callista asked.

"We're not through yet," Martin said. "Sit down and remain quiet."

Callista grimaced, but settled into Daud's chair. The top drawer was cracked open. Casually, she nudged the opening wider.

She saw the butt of her gun as the elevator slid to a halt and the doors opened silently.

Out of the elevator stepped a young woman, not much older than Callista, with dishwater blonde hair twisted into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a white wool coat that fell to her ankles, and beneath that Callista glimpsed nicely-pressed white slacks, perfect white heels, and a white turtleneck. The only flash of color was at her wrist - a bright red ribbon tucked back into her sleeve.

The woman - Lydia Boyle - surveyed the room and her audience, then smiled. Her lips were painted translucent gold. "I didn't expect such a large welcoming committee," she said. "What's the occasion?"

Her gaze lingered on Callista, and Callista suddenly felt out of place in her brown clothing. This was the woman who had set the rules, after all. Martin could be excused - he couldn't change the colors of his uniform - but what of her?

"Hello, Lydia," Martin said. "You could have told me you were stopping by."

"I did. I called ahead. Treavor answered, and said you were indisposed, but he could probably get ahold of you. I assumed you'd be here."

Martin smiled, but it was tight. "Care to tell me what you need, Lydia?"

"It's about the party at my estate at the end of the week."

Martin's smile fell. "I hadn't heard you were holding one," he said, carefully.

"Don't bother," Lydia said with a smooth smile. There was tension in her shoulders, though. She didn't want to be there, anymore than Martin wanted her to be. "I know you have somebody working the killing floor for you, Martin." Her gaze flicked to Daud for half a second. Daud didn't respond. "It's not hard to see why that pig Campbell was your first target. And I know the Pendletons are next, given Treavor's attitude tonight and because I have half a brain. They'll be vulnerable at the party. Go for it. But I also know that Esma also makes a rather fine target."

She got no response from Martin except a faint clearing of the throat. After waiting a few beats, she shrugged.

"I'm all for getting Esma out of play. I don't want her associating with Burrows anymore. But I also don't want her _dead_, or worse. So let's make another deal, since the first has worked out so well."

"And what do I get in return?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

"I don't turn the papers for the penthouse over to Arnold Timsh," she said with a faint shrug. "This place doesn't get condemned. You don't have to move your operation. And before you set your wolf on me, just think about if I would've come here without a backup plan."

Martin's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he quickly hid them, crossing his arms over his chest. Daud leaned his weight back on his heel. Callista's fingers curled around the edge of the drawer.

_I thought Pendleton_-

"I'm listening," Martin said. He didn't seem surprised at all. Daud must not have had all the information.

"Have whoever it is doing your dirty work get Esma out of the city. I don't care how. Waverly and I have tried to reason with her, but it's not working. She actually cares for the fool - and his power and attention. So get her out of the city; we'll arrange a pick-up for her, and she'll go to Whitecliff to visit her daughter. Everybody's happy. Then slaughter the Pendletons for all I care. In return, I give you the formal deed to the property. Not so bad, hm? You've been taking good enough care of it..."

Her gaze drifted back to Callista.

"That little transgression," Martin said, "will be corrected soon. We're still following your rules here."

Lydia leaned forward a little, peering at Callista. "Rules are meant to be broken, dear Martin." She kept her eyes fixed on Callista's. "Though if you're going to break them, do it with a little more flash. I think you'd look good in blue."

Callista snatched her hand back from the drawer. "I-"

"I run a tight ship, Lydia," Martin said, putting himself in between the two women.

Lydia's expression flattened into something like challenge as she regarded the Overseer. Her upper lip twitched in a repressed snarl.

"Is it really Corvo Attano you have working for you, Martin? That's who they're saying killed Campbell. Is it true? You're playing a rather dangerous game..."

"That is none of your business."

"That's none of my business as soon as I hand over the deed." She smiled, coldly. "Get Esma out of Dunwall."

"I'm going to be a bit busy. Didn't you hear? The Feast of Painted Kettles starts tomorrow."

She responded with a look of mock surprise. "Oh! How wonderful! And I'm sure you've got all your ducks in a row for that. Well, figure something out."

"One man can't slaughter two nobles and steal a third without being noticed. It's too much."

"Then _find another way_."

Martin's jaw worked, the muscles in his neck bunching. Then he glanced to Daud. "He'll take care of it."

Lydia Boyle smiled, lips pulling back to reveal perfect white teeth. "I knew we'd reach an agreement! Well, then. I'll set up transport for her if you can get her to the docks, and I'll get you the information as soon as I can."

"It had better be soon," Martin said, "since we only have four days."

_Four days_. Things were moving so quickly. The High Overseer and two noblemen murdered in the space of a week? She glanced behind her, out the window, half-expecting to see another district on fire. Was it Corvo, pushing this pace? Or was it Martin?

"I'll do what I can," Lydia said. "And I'll send along a mask for your man."

"A mask," Daud said, inclining his head in question.

"Oh, yes- it's a masked ball. Makes everything a little more fun, doesn't it?"

Callista looked back around just in time to see Daud- relax? He inclined his head. "It does. But I'll take care of my mask, Lady Boyle."

"Very well. I hope it's something good, though."

"Is that all, _Lady Boyle_?" Martin gritted.

Lydia looked at him, and then glanced around the room. "Well," she said, "I'd like to take a look around again, for old times' sake, but I suppose that can wait until I bring the deed. I should be getting back."

"Yes, you should," Martin said.

She huffed, but stepped back into the elevator all the same. "You'll need better manners," she said as she reached for the lobby button, "if you're going to be High Overseer, Teague. Start practicing in a mirror."

The doors slid shut. Martin's tight control slipped for just a second, and he snarled and picked up the tumbler on Daud's desk. His fingers curled tightly around it, and Callista waited for him to smash it against the wall, the floor, the elevator shaft.

He swallowed, turned the glass over, then set it down again.

"A masked affair is to our advantage," Daud said, quietly. "Corvo will need to wear a mask, as will I. There's a chance we'll never notice each other."

"Good," Martin said, "because I need you both _alive_."

"I think I can manage that."

Martin smoothed down the front of his uniform. "Well, make whatever preparations you need to. I'll call in the morning for an update on Emily's state. And you," he said, turning his head to Callista, "will cooperate going forward, or your uncle may not remain in perfect health. Do you understand?"

Her throat went dry and her mouth filled with ashes. All thoughts of the gun in the desk disappeared.

She nodded.

"Good. Daud, if you have the opportunity, please replace Miss Curnow's wardrobe with an appropriate color. I think we've been too allowing with her."

"Of course," Daud said.

Martin took a deep breath as the elevator rolled back up to their floor, straightened his shoulders as the door opened. He entered the carriage and turned to look at the both of them. "I am not your enemy," he said.

"Good luck tomorrow," Callista said, but it was empty of any sarcasm that could've given it weight. She felt small.

Daud nodded.

"I don't need luck," Martin said, and the doors rolled shut just as his lips curved into a faint smirk.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

_Special Sunday update! Normal updates will resume tomorrow._

* * *

_**Chapter 9**_

Three days passed while she sat in Emily's room. Under Sokolov and Piero's care, Emily was throwing up less and less often, and she was sleeping more soundly. She never bled from the eyes. The danger passed, and left in its wake a bone-deep weariness in all of them.

Her wardrobe changed. She found a note on her dresser that assured her that her own clothing was in a safe place, that she'd get it back again. What was left in her closet was a parade of black, like Daud's suits, in dresses and blouses and slacks and skirts and shoes.

She found the blue sundress tucked beneath her mattress.

She wanted desperately to wear it as Emily started sitting up in bed again, as she laughed and ate solid food, but she'd found another note stuck to the inside of the bathroom medicine cabinet that warned her that Daud had returned all the cameras in the apartment to full functioning, just in case.

Scribbled at the bottom was a single sentence: _Don't look yet, but in the bottom drawer of your dresser, you'll find your knife and keys and wallet._

Her heart had caught in her throat, and she had grabbed an antacid from the cabinet before closing the mirrored door.

Daud left her newspapers each morning. The Abbey of the Everyman had begun its ritual Feast of Painted Kettles for the selection of a new High Overseer; Teague Martin was listed as one of the contenders, along with several other men, all older than him, all with more expected service records. Martin was the outlier; he had joined the Abbey at a relatively old age, and before that had served in the military. His education was unknown. His family was unknown. The reporter glossed over all of the holes, spinning it until it read that he had "unique experiences" and "real-world knowledge".

It didn't look like he had a chance in the Void of winning, but she had a feeling he was prepared. Something would happen.

On the morning of the fourth day, she sat in Daud's chair by the windows, sipped her tea, and wondered if she would see him at all that day. She had barely seen him since their meeting with Martin. Tonight, he'd be attending a masked ball to steal another woman. Would she end up here? They'd spoken of getting her out of the country, but it seemed just as likely that they'd stash her in this- place out of time.

Piero puttered around the kitchen behind her, and she did her best to bury her speculation about the coming night. Men would die. A woman would disappear. Martin's plans, whatever they were, would come closer to completion, and with that, her chance of getting out of all of this seemed a little more real.

She turned the page of her newspaper. A piece of cardstock fluttered out from between the sheets of newsprint, sliding into her lap. Frowning, she picked it up.

The paper was cream with color-shifting embossing. It read:

_To the recipient of this letter:_

_At eight o'clock on the 17th day of the Month of Wind, we three Boyle sisters will once again host our annual ball. The theme this year is a masquerade, and we hope you will join us in a night of anonymous festivities._

_A wager, if you like: the first guest to correctly identify all three of us will be gifted with a whale-bone necklace from the family collection._

_The bearer of this invitation will be admitted, along with one guest._

_Yours in jest and merriment,_

_Esma, Lydia, and Waverly Boyle_

Callista frowned. _Along with one guest_. After a moment's hesitation, she turned the card over.

_Be ready by 7. I'll bring your mask and dress at 6. -D_

She rubbed her thumb along the card absently and chewed at her lip. What was he thinking? Was she supposed to be a distraction? Help? She'd never been to any party fancier than her graduation from high school (her university graduation had been small, with only a single friend and her uncle), and she'd certainly never helped a hitman extract a target. She'd have to tell him no. It was that simple.

_Knu-ulp_.

Water dripped upwards from the basin of the sink. Her head jerked up, and she found the Outsider in Piero's skin watching her from the kitchen island through pitch-dark hollow eyes.

She stared back, motionless, until her lungs remembered to work again. Carefully, she set the newspaper and the invitation on the small table by her chair, stood up, and crossed the space between them.

"Yes?" she asked. Days of hosting strange house guests made her voice sound almost normal.

"He's taking you on a job," the Outsider said. "Again- such a small possibility. So many things conspired to bring him to this point. Will you go?"

"No," she said.

He smiled. "And again, you took the smallest option. I thought you'd say, 'I don't know yet'. Keep surprising me, Callista Curnow."

She shook her head and braced her hands on the counter, looking down at them. They were still free of a mark. "Corvo will be there tonight, won't he?"

"He will. There is no possible future where he stays behind, save a single, fleeting potential where he is struck by a truck on the way there. Even then, he drags himself to a safe corner, recuperates, and does his best to complete the job. He believes that if he fails even once, Emily will pass beyond his grasp. How little he understands."

"You could correct him."

"That would be meddling," he said, taking off Piero's glasses and setting them aside. "I try to keep my meddling to a minimum. Besides, _that_ option only leads to Daud's death, and yours. It narrows the future too much."

That last bit made sense. At least, she thought it did. She took a deep breath and looked up at him.

"What happens if I go?"

He quirked a brow. "That would be cheating, Callista Curnow."

"Well, why are you _here_, then? If not to tell me?"

"I can't peer into your mind the same way I peer into Daud's and Corvo's." He shrugged. "I like to check in on the people making waves." He leaned forward. "But I can tell you, going with him tonight will give you a taste of a freedom you've only dreamed of, back when you were a little girl. It will thrill you. It will frighten you. But you are made for it."

_Freedom_. For a moment, she thought of sailing ships and salt breezes and the laughter of her mother, of her brother, of so many lost faces that she still associated with a time when she remembered how to dream. She thought of the party as a whaling excursion, with Esma Boyle as their target.

And then her stomach curdled and she quailed from the thought. She was not a whaler. She was not a hitman. She wasn't made for any of this.

She cleared her throat. "And if I stay?"

"Then you will most likely spend a quiet night at home. You will fall asleep before Daud returns."

She wet her lips. "Does Daud come back alive, if I stay here tonight?"

His lips curled. "I couldn't say."

"What about Emily?"

He pulled his index finger and thumb across his lips with a tilt of his head, then circled around the island and gestured for her to follow. He strode to the windows and looked out over the city. His reflection was not Piero's. She watched as his eyes darted from side to side, and in the slanting morning light, she thought she could still make out irises and pupils in all that dark.

"Why do you think he chose you?" he asked, voice soft and reverberating with a thousand different inhuman tones.

"Chose me?"

"Teague Martin gave him a list of seventeen names. Daud followed all of them. He recommended you, and no others."

She grimaced and looked down. "Because nobody would miss me."

"Wrong."

She glanced back up. The Outsider smiled with Piero's mouth.

"I'm a perfectly average teacher," she protested with a shake of her head.

The Outsider blinked slowly. "Correct."

She frowned. "So I don't see what else he could have picked me based on."

The Outsider seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. "He knew you would be good for little Emily Kaldwin. He saw the death in you, and he knew you would understand her, and that she would recognize you as what she needed."

"For her?"

"For him." He gestured expansively. "This apartment is as much a monument to Teague Martin's ambition as it is to Daud's guilt and self-loathing. He is trying to atone for his mistakes. You are one of his attempts. You are a correction."

Something twisted in Callista's chest. "I suppose... that's better than simply not being missed."

"You are missed. Your uncle thinks about you constantly."

Her head shot up. "My uncle? Where is he?"

"Inside the city."

"Tell me where he is," she said, reaching out, hesitating with her hand an inch away from his shirt collar. She wanted to badly to grab, to pull, to drag the answer from him. "_Tell me_-"

"No," the Outsider said. "That would be cheating."

She closed her eyes and curled her hand into a fist. She didn't understand his damned _rules_.

"A piece of advice, Callista Curnow," he said, and his words tickled at the shell of her ear. She startled, eyes flying open. She watched as his reflection hovered behind her, his eyelids at half mast, his lips curled into something more predatory than a smile. "Decide what your goals are. Decide where you want to be when the smoke clears. You have more options than you think."

Steps sounded in the hall above, and the Outsider pulled back, turned away from her and walked his borrowed body back towards the kitchen island. The steps reached the head of the stairs. In the window, the Outsider's reflection evaporated, leaving only Piero. She watched as the scientist stumbled forward a step, then put a hand to his head.

Sokolov descended the stairs and called for coffee.

She went to make some.

* * *

Callista turned the invitation over and over in her hands as she sat by Emily's bedside. Emily was sleeping again. The delicate skin around her eyes was bruised and swollen, and her lips were dry and cracked, but she wasn't thrashing and she hadn't soaked her sheets through with sweat in hours.

If she went to the party, would Emily notice? Callista had already decided that if she noticed, she'd care. It would be another betrayal. It would be another sign that Callista couldn't be trusted, that Emily had been right to withdraw. It might drive her away entirely, and the last thing she wanted in the whole world was for Emily to shut herself away where nobody would ever find her again.

And she couldn't leave her with Piero and Sokolov. That was unacceptable.

But as she turned the card over in her hands, and as she looked at her unmarked skin and thought about what it meant that the Outsider had stood in front of her and talked of possibilities, she wondered if maybe this was a chance she should take. He'd said her refusal to go was surprising, but he had anticipated her saying she hadn't chosen yet.

He had returned her to that anticipated state of not knowing. Or was she walking a different pattern? Had he seen not knowing, to deciding to go, to deciding not to? Had he seen not knowing leading eventually to going? Now, if she went from refusing to accepting, would that mean something entirely different?

Her head ached. She was no theologian. She was just a half-rate tutor and sometimes-nanny who had been kidnapped because nobody would miss her and because she made a broken man feel a little more whole.

She tossed the invitation onto the bedside table.

The whisper of cardstock over polished painted wood was enough to make Emily stir. Her brow furrowed. She'd had so many nightmares over the last few days that Callista immediately leaned forward to take her hand. So many days and nights had passed where Emily whimpered, called her mother's name, cried. Callista's heart clenched in preparation for another siege of dreams.

But Emily opened her eyes instead. She squinted and wrinkled her nose, then rolled over to face Callista. "What time is it?" she mumbled.

Callista glanced at the clock. "Five forty-seven," she said. Daud would be there soon.

Emily stretched, then reached out a searching hand for the invitation. "What's this?" Her movements tugged at the IV line suspended above her bed, and Callista reached out as if to stabilize it.

"Nothing," she said, trying to gently nudge Emily back down, but she already had a hold of it. Callista held her breath.

Emily read over it, then turned it over, lips pursing. "I remember the Boyle ladies. One of them has a daughter. She's my age." She turned it over again. "Did they send this to you?"

"To Daud," Callista said.

Emily looked at the back of it.

"This is from him?" she asked.

Callista nodded.

"You dress like him now, you know," Emily said. "All in black. Only Daud wears black."

"Even I have to obey the rules," Callista said, glancing away. "I wasn't allowed to wear brown anymore. And white is _your_ color."

Emily made a small, strangled sound, maybe of frustration, maybe of resignation. She tossed the invitation onto the floor and looked up at the ceiling. "So is he planning on taking you? Is that what it means?"

"He's planning on it. I intend to say no."

"Why is he going? Is he going to kill somebody?"

Callista considered for a moment, then shook her head. "No. He's going to save a woman's life."

Emily turned over, back to Callista.

"I know," Callista said, softly. "It's too late for that."

"Too late for what?" Daud asked from the doorway. Callista jerked and twisted to see him. Emily pretended to be asleep. Daud entered the room and stooped to pick up the invitation. "Good, I see you got this. I've put your things out in your room."

Callista looked between him and Emily. Emily was shaking, just a little. "I can't leave her by herself, Daud," she said. "She's still sick."

"She'll have Piero and Sokolov."

She shot him a look that said just how much she trusted them alone with their patient. He shrugged.

"I'll have Cecelia and Ms. Brooklaine come up, then. I'm sure Pendleton can spare them for a night."

Callista opened her mouth to protest, but then remembered that those women had also been watching the surveillance camera on Emily the night she'd fallen ill. They were in on all of this already.

"I need your assistance, Miss Curnow," he said, not looking at Emily. "I don't trust my ability to get Esma Boyle out of that party safely, and without notice. But I think you can."

"I can't."

"You are approachable and non-threatening, which I think everybody in this room will agree that I'm _not_."

Emily kicked a little under her blankets. Was that agreement?

"Come with me, and we save a woman's life tonight. Stay here, and there might not _be_ a here in a few days."

Callista looked down at her lap. "And what will that mean?"

"Chaos. Martin will likely move us, at great expense, under as much guard as he can muster. I don't know where he'll put us, or how much control we'll have over our environment when we get there." He cleared his throat. "If you decide to come, change and meet me downstairs in forty minutes."

And then he stepped out of the room and closed the door.

"... Emily?" Callista murmured.

"You should go," Emily replied.

"Are you sure?"

"He said he needed your help. He admitted he can't keep people alive. That's the most honest I've ever heard him," Emily said, then looked over her shoulder. "... Esma's the mom of the girl my age, you know. So you should go save her. Besides, I like the classroom here, I don't want another one."

Her voice was tight and sullen. She didn't want Callista to go, not really, but she had on her brave adult face that she used whenever she felt weak, and Callista had to look away for a moment, taking a deep breath to regain her composure.

"I can stay here," Callista said. "That's okay, too."

"You should go," Emily said. "It's just one night. Besides, it'll be pretty. You'll get to dress up. You can tell me stories when you get back. And maybe... maybe..."

Her voice trailed off. Callista leaned in. "What is it?"

"Well, you're saving her life, right? That means somebody's trying to kill her. And it's Corvo, isn't it?" She bit her lip and squinted against the tears that were welling up. Callista's heart stopped, waiting for the telltale trail of blood to leak from the corners of her eyes.

She didn't cry.

"I don't want him to kill anybody. So you should go. And if you- see him- tell him..."

Callista waited. The clock on the wall ticked, louder and louder with each passing second.

Emily took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell him I'm okay."

Callista nodded.

"I will."

* * *

He'd dressed her in blue.

She tried to ignore it while she showered and put her hair up in an elegant chignon, but she kept glancing over to where she'd hung the dress up from the towel rack. It was blue, aggressively so, and when Martin next checked his video feeds, he'd see her striding out of the apartment in a blue dress and a blue mask, going somewhere she suspected she wasn't supposed to go. She hoped getting the deed to the building was important enough that he would overlook this; she wasn't certain Daud would or could protect her.

She was more certain, however, that Daud wasn't doing this to put her at risk. He had to have another reason.

She'd considered, of course, wearing one of the black dresses he'd left in her closet. She was still considering it as she fastened her bra. Her blue mask would go with the knee-length black sack of a thing he'd left for her.

But it'd make her stand out at an aristocratic party, and she wanted that even less.

Carefully, she stepped into the dress and shimmied it up over her hips. The lining, at least, was black, as was the dense mesh that covered from the high neckline down to the top of her bust, where it plunged several inches to a point. From there it was, she supposed, still technically black, but the body of the dress was covered in intricate blue patterns that stood out, electric, against the harsh background. The dress went only to her mid-thigh, just below where her hands rested at her sides. Two black bands emphasized her waist, and the curling patterns moved in flattering eddies over what curves she had.

She zipped up the back of the dress and stared at herself in the mirror.

Experimenting, she shifted her weight. If she stepped forward so that the light was mostly behind her, she could clearly see the silhouette of her legs beneath the fabric. She swallowed and quickly stepped back.

He'd left her a hodgepodge of cosmetics, too. Too-dark lipstick, too-bright eyeshadow... she lined her eyes with black and covered the lids with silver, then gave in and painted her lips a deep plum. She didn't recognize the face in the mirror, so she completed her divorce from herself by tying on her mask.

It was a different shade of blue. It didn't match the dress, though where he'd gotten a blue mask at all was a mystery. It sat on her cheekbones and covered to the crown of her head, where two small horns - antlers, really - protruded from the top and dripped with dangled beads. A deer's face stared back at her from the mirror. Curving lines decorated it, too, though these were picked in silver on an aquamarine backing. With her eyeshadow, it looked almost intentional.

She slipped her shoes on, then stepped out into the hallway.

As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she made out Daud's voice. He was speaking softly, and as she began her descent, she braced herself for the Outsider's face in a window or the reflection of a glass. Instead, she saw two women standing in front of him, looking bored and haughty, respectively. The bored one had ginger hair that tried to fall in front of her eyes and pale eyelashes that made her look vaguely fish-faced. The haughty one had dark hair and heavy brows, and she had her arms crossed over her chest.

Callista remembered them, vaguely, from her first meeting with Martin.

"... not the first time I've taken care of a sick girl," the haughty one said. "I just want the two doctors out of here."

"And where do you propose I put them?" Daud asked, calmly. He was wearing one of his usual dark suits, but his shirt was a deep, enticing red. No mask dangled from his hand. She felt foolish and went to remove her own.

"Anywhere but here."

"Last time," the ginger said, "Dr. Joplin tried to tell me about the machines he was commissioned to build by the Golden Cat, and I just about threw up."

"They shouldn't even be let around a little girl."

Daud rubbed at his temple. "The _little girl_ would have died without them. They're safely put away in the library, running tests and arguing theory. They'll be there all night except for when it's time for her medication. Satisfactory, Ms. Brooklaine?" He scowled at the haughty woman.

_Ms. Brooklaine_. That meant the other was Cecelia. Callista just about had her mask off when Cecelia turned around and saw her.

"Does Martin know you're taking a date?" Cecelia asked. Brooklaine shot her a warning look. Cecelia wrinkled her nose. "Just asking, Lydia. I don't want to get in trouble because of _this_, too. Even if Martin doesn't do anything, Wallace will-"

"I've informed Martin," Daud interrupted. His gaze fixed on Callista and never wavered as she took the last few steps down to the floor. She looked down and smoothed her dress over her hips a few times, compulsively.

"Emily- can be a handful," Callista said, addressing Cecelia. "She's starting to feel better, so she'll try to push your limits."

"I've watched her before," Lydia - _Brooklaine_ - said, "briefly. Back at the beginning, when Martin didn't trust her by herself. She'll be fine."

Callista nodded after a moment.

"Did you pick that dress out yourself, Daud?" Cecelia asked, earning another warning look from Ms. Brooklaine, along with a hand clamped around her upper arm.

Daud shrugged. "She needed an appropriate costume," he said.

"It's a good one," Cecelia said, and then was led up the stairs.

Callista smoothed down her dress again. Daud watched her.

"Ready?" he asked.

"This is a lot of blue," she said.

"Our host mentioned it. Would you have rather I dressed you in yellow?"

She looked up at him, frowned. "Did our host send the mask, too?"

"No, she sent a different one for you. In red. I decided to find another set of masks for us both, so that we're a little less likely to walk into a trap. Are you ready?"

_Oh_.

She thought back to her worrying in the bathroom. He _definitely_ hadn't picked her dress to put her at risk, not if he was going out of his way - finding masks in Dunwall during what amounted to a lockdown - to protect her from potential plots.

"I suppose so," she said, slowly. "What, exactly, am I going to be doing?" She followed him as he turned and led the way to his office.

"You're going to be my distraction. You'll get close to Esma Boyle, win her trust, figure out a way to talk to her privately." They boarded the elevator and he hit the button for the lobby. "Then I'll take care of the rest."

"And what's the plan, for the rest?"

"We get her in my car, conscious or not, and we drive her to the harbor. Lydia's contact is a woman named Lizzy Stride. She'll take Esma to see her daughter over in Whitecliff. Hopefully."

Callista frowned and followed him out across the lobby, heels clicking amidst the debris. "Hopefully?"

"I've had a few run-ins with Lizzy Stride. Not the type of person I'd ever trust with anybody's life, not even the taking of it. But if Lydia Boyle wants her, that's what she gets." He watched her as they stepped out into the dim early night. The streetlights around the building were broken, flickering, or dingy.

_I thought we were saving a life_, she wanted to say. She didn't. Daud was right: Lydia Boyle had made plans, and they were only there to carry them out. Where else could they take her? What else could they _do_?

She was silent as he led her around the back of the building and through a side door to a flight of steps that led down and down.

"But we'll do our best," Daud said, quietly.

"You're not a killer anymore," she said as he reached out and flicked a light switch. She squinted as a bare bulb illuminated a few square feet of garage and the passenger-side door of a car.

"I'm certainly trying," he said, and moved around into the shadow to unlock the car. The lights inside came on, as he sat and stretched across the passenger-side seat and opened the door for her, nudged it wider. She caught it and slid inside, mindful of her hemline.

"This dress," she said as she shut the door and buckled her seatbelt. He touched a button and the garage door began rumbling up. As the lights dimmed, she stiffened. All around her was the smell of Daud - and, more importantly, the upholstery of the car. For a moment, she was bound and covered up in the footwell of the backseat. Every muscle in her went rigid and she forgot how to speak.

"It matched the mask," he said as he started the engine and pulled the car out of the garage in a fluid, practiced arc. "Which I found at an old costume shop. I thought Emily might like it, after tonight."

"Because it's bright?" she managed, trying to focus on how she was sitting in the front seat now. That only led to thoughts of how she had become his accomplice, somehow, and how strange and twisted their situation was.

Daud continued on, oblivious. "And absurd. It might even make her laugh, if you're the one to give it to her." They swung out onto the streets of Rudshore.

She was silent until they could see lights on the river, and she had practiced breathing enough that she felt ready to speak again. Her mind whirled with questions and fears. She settled on one that seemed the least intimate.

"You told me _Pendleton_ owned the building," she said.

He grunted.

"That's what it looked like, from all the angles I saw," he said, eyes strictly on the road ahead. "Martin either is really good at covering up his weak points, or Lydia Boyle is more clever than I gave her credit for."

She stared down at her hands. Her skin was dry and her nails were clipped blunt. She was going to stand out. Daud spoke of not making them targets, but what good would a nice dress and an unfamiliar mask do? The moment anybody spoke to her, it would be painfully obvious that she was a middle class tutor with narrow, boring tastes and interests. And even if they didn't speak to her, they'd see it in the way she carried herself, in the way she didn't know how to hold a wine glass properly or some other tiny detail she didn't know how to control or correct.

"You're worrying," Daud said. She glanced over at him. He looked relaxed, gloved hands curled lightly around the wheel. "Is it the car?"

She didn't answer.

"Don't feel ashamed if it is."

He left it at that, turning onto the more brightly-lit streets that led to the inhabited districts. Callista curled one hand around the handle of her door and peered out the window. The city looked different, emptier and duller, but she wondered how much it had changed compared with how much _she_ had changed. How much of this had she been ignoring?

"Tell me about Corvo," Daud said after the silence had become too thick to ignore.

She looked up. "Corvo?"

"Yes, you've seen him more recently than I have. If he's moving around openly tonight, I don't want to bump into him. How will I know him?"

"He's... angry," she said. "And desperate. And..."

She trailed off, glancing to the rearview mirror as if the Outsider would appear with a finger over his lips. He didn't.

Daud caught her gaze in the mirror. "Yes?"

Callista took a deep breath. "He has a Mark."

He didn't respond at first, then said, "What kind of mark?"

She looked out the window at the buildings going past. "The heretical kind," she said. "The Outsider's."

His response, when it came, was a snort. "So he's picked up ghost stories in jail. Lovely." But beneath his derision she thought she heard a tinge of wariness. His left hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the wheel.

She cleared her throat. "I've heard that-"

He took a corner harder than he needed to, then slowed to a halt and swore. "These damn checkpoints!"

Callista shakily sat up straight again. Apparently, the gloves were for more than hiding his visual shame. She licked her lips. "Is the invitation not enough to get us into the Estate district?"

His shoulders relaxed. "Not enough for most of the checkpoints. Closer to, yes, but not this far out. Martin gave me a map..." He grimaced and pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and tossed it to her. "Which checkpoints he's bought off tonight change by the hour, though, so I'll need you to navigate. I'm fairly certain the one right in front of us is not friendly."

She looked between the map and the gleaming spotlight shining up at the clouds nearby. She could see beside it a crackle of arcing electricity.

"I don't remember seeing those before."

"A new invention, slowly being rolled out across the city over the next month," he said as he fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, rolling down the window just a crack. "It will knock a person unconscious, or shut down a car. Sokolov's work. They're saying it's a safety measure, to keep riots contained after that fire in Aldwater the night Campbell died."

"Was that because of riots?"

"No," he said.

* * *

They rolled through the darkened streets until finally lights blazed all around them. The electric brilliance fought back the shadow of death and fear that she now thought must wind through the whole city, infecting everything and everybody within. At the checkpoints where Daud's car rolled through unmolested, she looked at the faces of the guards they passed. Some had the cruelty of an Overseer's mask etched into the lines of their skin, the twists of their muscles; others had only a firm blankness covering- what? Dissent? Disgust? Or quiet threat and pleasure that was best satisfied in the dark?

After the first one, she quietly set her mask in place.

"So the invitation said that there's a prize for guessing the identity of each sister?" Callista asked as the tenements gave way to expansive townhouses. The alleys grew into roads. The verges grew into yards.

"I'm sure Lydia will help us identify her sister. She's not that perverse." This time, when he took a corner, it was smooth and graceful. He was a good driver when he wasn't panicked. "If she doesn't address us directly at the party, then she must have already given us a clue, either to what she'll be wearing or what Esma will. Look for white, I suppose."

"Are there any rules I should know?" she asked, as the car glided alongside the widening canal.

"Don't agree to anything," he said. They pulled up towards a brightly lit brick manor, and were waved around on a drive that led behind it by a servant with white gloves that gleamed in their headlights. "And don't demure. They'll take it as weakness, as a sign that you're below them, and they will seek to break you open. If they insult you, ignore it or insult them back. If they try to embarrass you, remain above it. Getting a scene out of somebody is considered entertainment." His voice dripped with bitterness.

"How many nobles have you killed?" she asked as she tied her mask back on.

He pulled into a parking spot. "Enough. You could float the whole city on the blood I've spilled."

Callista bit her lip. "... Is it true you killed Esma Boyle's husband?"

"No. But it was one of my men who did it, and I profited from it." He met her gaze, as if searching for something. "You're more familiar with death than most. You should be able to adequately picture the destruction I've caused."

She looked down at her lap.

"Now's not the time to remind me to hate you," she said. "I thought we were partners."

He was silent.

"Let's get to work, then," she said, and opened the door.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 10**_

Callista stepped out into a different world, filled with floating lanterns and sparkling lights, surrounded by a midnight garden that sprawled around open, gleaming pools. Behind her, Daud's shoes crunched on the gravel path - a courtesy, she now well understood. He came to stand beside her, and she looked over at him.

A wolf stared back at her.

The contorted features were distinct enough, even in the half-light (or maybe because of it), that she stumbled back half a step. Beneath his mask his lips curled. She couldn't see his eyes in the gloom.

"Shall we?" he murmured, and he extended his arm.

She took the wolf's arm and let him lead her through the garden and toward the mansion proper. It sprawled across several wings, and as they grew closer and the lights scattered across the grounds grew denser and brighter, she could make out exquisitely patterned brick walls and high, arched windows. Inside the house, lights gleamed bright, and she could see revelers. They moved with stately grace around tables groaning with food.

Her deer's head swiveled this way and that, trying to take it all in. It was too much. It overwhelmed her. She tried to step back.

Daud covered her hand with his and held tight.

"Think of how you felt," he murmured, "when you told Martin where to shove it the other night. I need that woman here right now, with me. Where's the woman who collects books on the old whalers?"

She froze, her tension shifting its locus. Pulling away seemed foolish; all she could do was stand motionless. "How-"

"I read all the book titles in your apartment," he said, and his voice was as rough as the path that caught at her heels and stuck in her soles. "Check the third row of shelves in the library. I've been replicating your collection the best I can."

She frowned behind her mask. "Why?"

"Because I assumed you'd be there for a long stay," he said.

"Only two and a half weeks so far," she muttered, and he laughed.

"Seems like a great deal longer, with everything that's happened." His grip on her hand loosened, and he turned away from her. His voice grew distant. "Imagine if you hadn't taken your walk that night - we'd still be sitting around a table drinking tea at lunchtime."

Her chest tightened in confusion. Should she be happy that Martin's plans were moving forward swiftly because she'd led Corvo to him? Or should she fear where they were plummeting headlong towards, and instead wish that she'd never left at all, and had stayed a prisoner for months, possibly years?

His leather-tipped fingers brushed her elbow, lightly, and she looked to him. She needed to do her job. She had chosen to come here.

Callista took a deep breath and turned her thoughts back along the path they'd come down.

"Why not take _my_ books?" she asked, thinking back to her short stay in her own room.

"I still hold out hope you'll be able to go back one day. I'll take your old clothing back when I get a chance to." His voice was soft, and she watched his chin furrow as he pursed his lips below the shadow of his mask. He turned away from her again, scanning the yard.

"Damn," Daud muttered, and she turned to follow his gaze.

"What is it?"

"The man, over there," he said, nodding to a shadow standing by a sleek tan car. "That's Samuel Beechworth, one of Havelock's men. Normally he just helps with purchasing and transporting alcohol to Pendleton's club."

"Is he here for muscle?" Callista asked, subconsciously taking a step closer to Daud.

"No. Transport, still, I think. But my guess is that means Corvo is already here. We need to move quickly - no way to know how soon he'll strike, or if it'll be a surgical takedown or a bloodbath." His lips twisted. He looked back down at her. "You're sure, about the Mark?"

She could hear the hovering capital M - for all his feigned obliviousness and his avoidance, he was professional enough - or scared enough - to take the threat Corvo posed seriously.

Callista nodded. "Absolutely sure."

"Then we'll have to hope he's not wearing gloves. Come on."

He fished the invitation, which he must have retrieved from Emily's floor, from his jacket pocket and led her the rest of the way along the path to the door. He handed over the piece of cardstock. The guard - a police officer, she noticed, or at least somebody dressed as one - made a few rumblings about the lack of name on the invitation, but Daud said something regarding anonymity and the nature of the game that night, and they were let in.

Callista's head tilted back, and she stared, open-mouthed, at the glittering ceiling. The whole foyer was filled with lights of a hundred different colors, all reflecting from the stained glass patterns swirling overhead. The chandeliers were draped with a thousand kinds of crystal. The walls towered around her, two oversized stories high, and the music and voices carrying through the hall made her head spin.

Daud leaned close. "Ignore it all," he said in her ear, and the bitterness dripping from his words made her shiver. "It's built on blood and shit and filth. The Boyles got their money long ago through a twist of fate. Back when the rat plague hit two centuries ago, they happened to own a plot of land that could be mined for a type of crystal that, when burned, kept the rats away. They kept that money and expanded it through shrewd business deals. They broke unions as a hobby. They have silenced countless mouths. This house is built on so much sand that the weight of it all will compress it to stone, and leave it unshakable - but it is sand all the same. They have a title. They have money. They have cruelty. And so they continue."

He settled his hand instead on the small of her back, guiding her toward another doorway. "The Pendletons, who will die here tonight, own a different kind of mine. Fine metals that Sokolov uses in his inventions and that were once simply money in the earth. They dam up bays and boil the water to nothing, then go in and dig down beneath the seafloor. When the waters rush back in, their workers drown by the hundreds. Nobody ever hears about it. They blackmail and kidnap to get their laborers. They drag men and women, kicking and screaming, from families that are too drug-addled to care - because the Pendletons also have a hand in the import and distribution of cheap drugs from Pandyssia.

"These people around you are human behind their masks, yes, and people will miss them if they die - but they are not the same sort of person you are. They would drain you dry and smoke cigars over your corpse, if they could gain from it. Filth and shit, Miss Curnow. Don't give them a second of your time."

Callista turned to look at him, brows drawn down. The derision in his voice had turned to a strangled sort of pain as he whispered in his ear.

"So they deserve to die?" she asked.

Daud's lips parted, but no words came out.

"It was easy to kill them," she corrected.

He nodded.

She swallowed. The sins and crimes this house was built on did little to change the opulence and craftsmanship in every inch of it, but _he_ had drawn her back from it all. He looked so ill at ease, even as he spoke, even as he instructed. His hand on her back had curled slightly, and not to hold her close.

"There," Daud said, at last. "In the white, with the hat."

Callista turned, just in time to see a figure about Lydia's height disappear into the crowd.

"Should I go after her?"

"Move towards her, definitely. I'll join up with you again in a moment. I need to locate Corvo, if he's on the floor." His hand lingered for a moment on her back.

"What if something goes wrong?" she asked.

His lips pressed together. "Don't let it go wrong," he said, and then let go of her, breaking away from her and joining the flow of people.

All around her were people in fine clothing with finer masks. Hers felt cheap in comparison. One man wore a whale mask that covered his entire head. Another woman wore a porcelain doll's face, the back of her head covered in sheer silks. Callista wrapped an arm around her waist before remembering Daud's advice not to look vulnerable. She took a deep breath and moved a few steps in the direction of the Boyle woman in white.

The skin over her spine crawled, but every time she looked over her shoulder, nobody was looking back. Even Daud had disappeared. By the time she reached one of the long refreshment tables, she'd realized that the feeling of being watched came not from anybody watching, but from nobody watching. She was alone in enemy territory. She was in danger. She had no ally.

Was this how Daud had felt, sitting in his tower?

No. He, at least, could defend his life if it came to it.

She took a moment by the table to nibble at a tartlet despite her roiling, nervous stomach, and closed her eyes. She thought about old whalers, out at sea for months, hauling the great leviathans from the depths and carving them up alive. She thought about the horrible storms, the pitching of the ships, and the way each trip out made the man who returned a little harder, a little less himself. How many storms had she weathered in her life? How many deaths? How many cataclysms?

When she opened her eyes, it was like peering out of a whaler's mask. She could almost imagine the filtration chamber over her nose and mouth. She set down the remnants of her tart and picked up a glass of Tyvian red, then sought out the woman in white.

_There_. She stood by a fireplace, speaking with two men with high foreheads and cruel smiles who wore masks that were the inverted images of one another. The men were draped over a couch, and the woman bent over them, shoulders shimmying slightly. As Callista neared, she tried to evaluate the exact curve of her hip. Lydia? Or Esma?

She was so focused on the particular line from her back down to her heels that she didn't notice the woman in the moth mask before it was too late. She stumbled into her and then back, stunned. The whaler's mask fell away.

"Sorry," she said.

No wine had spilled, at least. The moth-headed woman canted her head. "Busy trying to figure out the game, hm?" she asked, voice distorted by the sculpture she wore. It was hideous in every detail.

Callista glanced back at Lady Boyle. "Trying, yes." She tried to edge away.

The moth woman followed. "They've made it harder this time around," she said, conversationally, and Callista could hear the faint slur to her words. How was she drinking through that thing? "Last time they tried this game, they all wore different outfits. The one question _then_ was had they picked their own, or picked for each other? Tonight they've all decided to wear the same boring mask and pantsuit. No personality at all. Makes it less fun."

She glanced over the woman's shoulder. Lady Boyle was moving on. "Excuse me, ah, Lady-"

"Miss White," she said cheerfully. "I've figured out that Waverly is the one in black, but you'll have to let me know if you find any clues. I can't decide if Lydia or Esma would prefer red. They are both women of passion, you know."

Callista tried to step around her. Miss White followed at her elbow. "I really am trying to find somebody," Callista said at last. "And I don't think he'll come if I'm not alone."

At that Miss White did drop back a pace, even as she hummed in approval. "_That_ sounds like a far more interesting game. Is it Ramsey, that dog? Or is it Brisby? He always has liked getting the objects of his affections on their own..."

"Neither," she said, and slipped between another officer of the Watch (perhaps) and a man in a coyote's mask, moving in the direction of the couch where the lady in white had been.

The two men were still there, though they'd settled one of the hired servers between them. The girl - she couldn't have been more than eighteen - looked positively frightened. Callista choked down bile and chased it with a swallow of wine, and moved on. This was not her fight.

It was Corvo's.

He must have known some of the people in the room, she thought as she fell into the flow of the crowd. He must have spoken to them, laughed with them, glared at them when they came too close to the Empress. And how many of these people had known Emily? How many knew Treavor? Admiral Havelock?

Did any of them know Teague Martin, the man who would be High Overseer?

She passed through a door into a glittering music room, and saw Waverly Boyle in black standing by a window, as if by staring hard enough she could see past her own reflection. A flash of black and red- Daud approaching with two glasses of wine.

She eyed them. He shrugged.

"I wasn't sure if you would've found the drinks yet," he said, and tossed back a whole glass in one swallow, then set the empty stem aside on a bookshelf. "Find anything?"

"Waverly is in black," she said. "And two people who I assume are the Pendleton twins-"

"Have found a target for tonight, yes. She'll be lucky to get home with her skin intact," Daud muttered. "I haven't seen Corvo."

"Neither have I," she said, taking a sip of her wine and giving in to the urge to wrap her free arm around her waist. She stood with her thighs pressed together, nervously.

"I got close enough to the sister in red. I think she's Lydia," Daud said. "Thoughts?"

"I thought the one in white was moving differently from Lydia, but I don't know them well enough."

"I think the odds are leaning in our favor, though." He nodded to where the sister in white had stepped into the room. Waverly continued staring at the window. "Your move, Callista." He lifted the glass he still held towards her, then drifted away.

Callista took a deep breath and made her way toward the target.

First things first. As Esma slowed, drawn no doubt by Callista's attention and awkward smile, Callista leaned in and said, "I think I've guessed who you are."

That drew a small laugh from behind the mask. "Oh? Without ever having spoken to me?" She leaned forward a little as well, and Callista thought she could make out glittering, mirthful eyes through the slits in the plastic. The mask covered her whole face and was topped with a broad-brimmed hat piled with white flowers. Even her hair was covered. The effect was unsettling as she spoke again. "I don't think I recognize _you_, Miss Deer."

"Lydia Boyle invited me," Callista said, doing her best not to curl around herself. She did, however, look at the floor, then cautiously back up. "But you don't strike me as the same as her. Unless she is a very good actress."

"She _is_," the woman purred.

"And I have also heard," Callista continued, "that your sister by the window, in black, is Waverly. That leaves only Esma undecided."

"Oh, but you need to find out for yourself! It's no fun believing what others say." The woman laughed again. "Come, now."

"But I'm so impatient," Callista said.

Esma was leaning towards her still - if Esma she was - and she kept one hand on her white-clad hip, where it stroked sensual patterns there. Her focus was absolute.

"But waiting makes the prize all the sweeter," Esma murmured. "Delayed gratification. Letting the need and frustration build until all that you can think about is... not an answer at all."

Callista could feel herself flushing.

Esma sidled closer. "My, I fear I've given you ideas. Are you still so impatient?"

Callista's mouth was dry as she murmured, "Y-yes."

That drew a rich peal of laughter from her. "Shy little thing, and yet bold, too. Who are you?"

"You've never met me," she said, "and if you are anonymous tonight, then so am I."

Esma reached out and trailed a white-gloved hand along her arm. "Well, Miss Deer," she said, and leaned in, "I shall tell you that I am not Lydia. And I am not Waverly. And I am also not nearly entertained enough tonight by my usual company. I think I shall accompany you. But you must not tell anybody else who I am."

"Of course not," Callista said, daring a small, trembling smile. "You can watch my mouth, to be sure of it."

"Mm, I'd like that."

Esma slipped her arm through Callista's, and led her away from Waverly, out towards the room of laughter and noise and music and food where she had started. Callista let her. They passed through a low-ceilinged passage that was draped with richly colored fabrics, thick and heavy with embroidery and beading. They served little purpose except, she supposed, to mark the boundary between rooms. When the party was over, would they even be kept?

"We so rarely get _new_ guests," Esma sighed as they strolled about the edge of the room. "I get so _bored_ of the Pendletons and Miss White and Ramsey and all the rest. I have seen them at event after event, year after year... I know them all far too well. But you... where did Lydia find you, Miss Deer?"

"In the forest," Callista responded with an awkward laugh. She finished off her flute of wine and set it on a sideboard as they passed.

Esma gave her arm a squeeze. "Oh, and were you dancing in the moonlight?"

She lowered her gaze. "Yes. I was magnificent in my usual brown and white fur, and I caught her eye." Not a total lie, but it was like something out of a story for Emily. The towering forest of Rudshore high rises; Callista's old transgression of brown. "But she said I would look better in blue."

"You do wear it very well."

Callista glanced around for Daud.

"And who are you looking for?" Esma murmured in her ear, making Callista's heart stammer. She couldn't remember the last time anybody had stood so close to her, and whispered so sweetly.

Daud materialized from the crowd as she watched.

Esma followed her gaze. "Are you looking for Mr. Wolf?"

Callista gave a small nod.

Esma hummed appreciatively. "He's a fine looking man. Very nice suit. And the color of his shirt- bold. Does he always wear those leather gloves, do you think?"

"He does," she said.

"So you know him! Mm, and was he hunting you when Lydia met you? Did she come between an act of nature?"

_No. Teague Martin was my pursuer_. She licked her lips. "He's been hunting me for some time now, I suspect."

Esma wiggled beside her, giggling. "Oh, _lovely_. Tell me- do you know how he kisses? Is he as hungry as his mask suggests, our Mr. Wolf?"

Her voice caught, and she had to laugh to force it out. "I wouldn't know." This farce made her thoughts bubble and roil, and she could feel her cheeks burning. Her skirt was too short. She felt flayed open, pinned like a specimen on a board.

In her ear, Esma murmured, "So he hasn't caught you yet?"

Callista shook her head. "He's only my date for tonight," she said, and she couldn't help her smile at the absurdity of it, even as her heart fluttered just a little bit. They made a decent looking pair, she thought. Wolf and deer.

Esma clapped her hands together. "Oh, it's so clever!"

Callista's brow furrowed beneath her mask and she turned to look at Esma. "What is?"

"Your _masks_. He's the hunter, you're the prey - but it goes beyond that, doesn't it?" Esma's arm slipped around her waist, pulling her close. "You're not really the prey at all, are you? You're a hunter in disguise. A wolf in- deer's clothing." She laughed, and it was breathy and sensual and smelled like fine wine.

_A hunter in disguise_. Callista's heated blood suddenly froze. Did she know?

"You two are very clever. I like that."

"I-" _What do I_-

"I'd like to see you dance together," she said as Daud came over to them, fresh glasses of wine in hand. "Mr. Wolf, do you dance?"

He canted his head. "I do," he said, holding out the glass for Esma. She took it.

"And Miss Deer?" Esma asked, and Callista watched as she detached the chin of her mask just long enough to take a long sip of wine.

"I once took lessons, but it was a long time ago," she admitted. "But I don't think-"

"Dancing, you know, is one of the most intimate actions a pair can undertake while fully clothed." Her free hand walked along the curve of Callista's waist, down to the high hem of her skirt. "I think it's a decent metric of other activities. What would you say?"

Callista let out a tiny, confused whimper. _She can't mean_-

"That you are very wise," Daud murmured, and swallowed down half the wine, before passing it to Callista. With a fleeting panicked look, Callista drank the rest of it, and set it aside.

"I'll go set the music," Esma said, and Callista imagined a cat's pleased grin on her face, all lazy gaze and expectations. She gave Callista's hip one last squeeze before letting go. As she passed Daud, she trailed a hand along his shoulder.

Callista's knees shook and she took a deep breath. "I can't dance," she said.

"You really did take lessons?" he asked, watching Esma walk away.

"I did. When I was fifteen. That doesn't count."

"It's good enough," he said, then grimaced. "Though I'm not excited about drawing attention to ourselves, in a situation where we can't slip away into the crowd. If Corvo..."

"I haven't seen any sign of him," she assured him.

"That has me _more_ nervous," Daud growled. Then he shook his head and held out his hand. "Come on. The dancefloor awaits."

She hesitated a moment before finally putting her hand against his glove. He curled his fingers lightly around hers, and led her towards the space that had been cleared for dancing, though few couples bothered.

The music that was playing stopped mid-song, then began anew. Esma had replaced the stately piano music with something with a strong beat and a low guitar rhythm.

"Serkonan," Daud said after a moment. "Lucky."

Before she could ask, he settled an arm around her waist and drew her close enough to whisper in her ear above the beat:

"Do your best to follow me. I'll hesitate just a little to make it look like you're actually the one leading - that should interest her enough."

She swallowed thickly. "I can't believe we're seducing her. _We._"

He ignored the stress. "Well, to seduce her, you're going to need to look seduced as well. So will I. Eyes on mine," he murmured, pulling back and meeting her gaze from behind his wolf's face. "Trust me," he added.

She gave him a tiny nod.

Another guitar line picked up, higher than the background rhythm and faster, and before she could take a step back, he'd already pulled her around him, making her stumble as she followed. His lips curled slightly below his mask, and she settled her hands quickly on his shoulders. He stepped out to his left, and she mirrored him. His steps started slow, but built and built until they were moving in wide paths, cutting across the floor and then back.

Two repeats in, she realized that he only completed his half of the step slightly after she did- and always ended up a little in front of her. He was using his greater breadth to look like he was chasing her, hemming her in, stalking her like the deer she was. Her eyes widened as he pushed her back, and she retreated, step after step, their legs brushing at the ankles. It was easy to move away, to be pursued, and she slid easily into the role of prey.

He let her keep her distance, but he followed her on the path he directed her along. He'd guide her to his left, and she'd circle around him, only to have him turn smoothly on his heel. Then he'd let go of her with one hand and she'd try to step past him, but he'd follow, turn her, spin her.

The music grew faster and faster, and her heartbeat matched it as he spun her away from him. She stumbled as he drew her back. Her thoughts reeled and she found herself pressed hard against him, clutching at him to keep her balance.

Her cheeks flushed and her breath came faster and heavier as he kept them moving. Her feet moved without conscious thought, evading his steps when he stalked towards her, following him when he pulled her close with the pressure of his hands. Sometimes she would misread him, and he would smoothly turn it into a hunter's feint. He dragged her close, then let her put distance between them again. He cut her off as she stepped right, slid in front of her, pressed forward so she would backpedal away.

People gave them space, and she tried desperately to ignore all the eyes watching them. Somewhere in that crowd was Esma Boyle, evaluating them, their chemistry, their physicality. Her lips parted and she stared into Daud's eyes - green, she realized with a hysterical thrill. She fell into them because they were the safest place to be.

The music crescendoed. It halted. Daud clutched her close, his breath ghosting over her lips.

"Wait for it," he murmured.

She made some weak noise in return.

The beat started up again, and he quickly spun her out, caught her again, led her in a fast-paced chase around him. He drew close once, twice, and on the third time he murmured in her ear, "Trust me."

She opened her mouth to ask _why_, when the music abruptly sped up again and he twirled her around, then caught her in one arm and, as the music slowed to a crawl as quickly as it had accelerated, dipped her back towards the floor.

Her arms went around his neck and shoulders, and one of her legs hooked around his as he lowered her, farther and farther still. His breath ghosted along her throat, his wolf's grin nudging at her pulse. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, and he held her steady until she was so low that she felt like he could lay her out across the floor.

He stopped.

She breathed.

And then he straightened, and the song was over. She clung to him, one hand buried in his dark hair, the other curled into his lapel. Her heart stammered and stumbled as it tried to find a new rhythm, and as the roar of her pulse lessened, she could hear their matched breathing, and the resounding hush from their audience.

She slid her leg away from his, guiltily.

As she watched, he licked his lips and shifted his shoulders. He was tense under her hands. Slowly, she slipped her hand from his scalp.

"This isn't my preferred approach," he said, and his voice sounded tight. "For the record."

"I think we managed well enough," she said, finally letting go of him entirely and stepping back, running her hands over her dress. Her skin was beaded with sweat.

Daud had yet to look away, and she found she couldn't drop her gaze, either. She felt pinned, stalked, and without thinking she reached up to touch her throat where he'd been so close to biting it-

Or kissing it, she supposed.

_Oh_.

Esma crossed the floor to them, clapping her hands, and only then did Callista look away. The weight of Daud's eyes stayed on her. She rubbed at her throat again, and pasted on a smile.

"Well?" she asked.

Esma looked between the two. "By your dancing, you must be Serkonan, I think?"

"An eighth," Callista said, "on my mother's side."

Daud cleared his throat and came to stand beside her, hand at the small of her back. "Serkonan and Pandyssian," he said.

Esma purred. "Oh, _Pandyssian_."

"My mother," Daud added.

"I've never met somebody from Pandyssia before."

"I was raised in Serkonos." Daud glanced around the room. There were still people watching.

"Perhaps we could retire to somewhere more private?" Callista said. The hand on her back shifted in approval. "The gardens, maybe?"

Esma nodded. "Oh, I think that'd be _splendid_." She slipped between them and turned, taking both their arms and leading them along. Daud shot Callista a look around the mass of her hat. "We've just gotten some new Morley night-bloomers," Esma added, steering them.

"Do you like flowers?" Callista asked, smiling stiffly.

"Oh, yes. Growing them, arranging them, smelling them - there's a lot that goes into them." She sounded like she was smiling as she paraded her conquest out of the main room and towards one of the open sets of doors. "Anton Sokolov has promised me he'll bring me back a few Pandyssian specimens on his next trip."

Daud hummed. "You know Sokolov?"

"Yes, he's attended several of our dinners recently. The other week, we had a _great_ conversation about herbal remedies. He's largely skeptical of them, but he admitted that some have legitimate methods of action."

_Not what I expected_, Callista wanted to say. Instead, she twisted it into, "You have a great many interests."

She shrugged, a fluid, rolling thing, aided, no doubt, by the wine that made her hips swing and her words come freely. "I'd have _loved_ to go to the Academy as a girl, but it never happened. Business got in the way. And my husband." Esma paused a moment, then swore, then laughed. "Oh, dear, I've given myself away."

"Have you?" Daud asked, softly. "You could be misleading us intentionally. Making us only _think_ you're Esma Boyle."

"Well, I won't be wearing this mask _all_ night. And besides, Miss Deer already knows I'm not Waverly and I'm not Lydia," she said as they made their way down the path. After a moment's thought, she looked up at him. "So, Mr. Wolf - do you have a pack?"

Daud's lips thinned. Callista bumped Esma's hip with her own to draw her attention away. "He usually doesn't like to share," she said, winking as her stomach turned and twisted.

He huffed a small laugh. "No. I'm particular that way."

"Oh, then I feel _honored_," Esma said, then laughed, and let go of them for a moment, reaching up to take her mask off. She unhooked it from some attachment to her hat, then pulled it away with a theatrical sigh of relief.

Callista caught her breath. She was _stunning_, even flushed from wearing a mask across her whole face all night. There were little red indents on the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks, but Callista looked right past them. She knew she must have seen Esma Boyle on the news at some point, but it couldn't have done her justice. Her hair was more golden that Lydia's and her eyes were large and blue, framed by lashes that were just dark enough.

Esma smiled at her, and linked their arms together again. "Like what you see?" she murmured.

Callista nodded, then looked away.

"What is it?" Esma cooed, circling around in front of her and cupping her face in her hands. Carefully, she nudged the mask up and out of the way. "Are you worried you're not lovely enough for me?"

"No, that's not-" Not it, not exactly. Esma was beautiful, and clever, with a wider mind than she'd supposed, and her thoughts spun between being glad that they were going to save her life, and fearing what darkness had to still be lurking, what filth and shit she was built upon.

"You're lovely enough for me," Daud said.

Her world skidded to a halt, and it was all she could do to laugh thinly and duck her head. "Stop," she said. "Let's- go deeper into the garden. Those night-blooming flowers," she said, and Esma grinned and took her arm again, leading her along. Daud fell in step behind them.

They were just out of sight from the house when Daud stepped up close behind Esma and looped an arm around her waist. Esma laughed and tilted her head back.

Daud pressed a syringe into the exposed vein in her throat, and Callista watched, transfixed, as he depressed the plunger. Esma frowned, tried to say something, managed a confused gurgle of a half-sentence, then sagged, eyelids fluttering.

"A little help?" he asked, and Callista reached out mechanically, helped take Esma's weight. Daud glanced around. "We should be able to get her to our car between the two of us. Tilt her face towards you- like that, yes. Like you're conspiring."

Together, they walked the mumbling, addled, barely-conscious Esma towards the car. Callista tried to ignore how blank her eyes were beneath her twitching eyelids. "Fast-acting," she murmured.

"The alcohol helped, as did the opportunity. I just hope the dosage was right." He grimaced. "I erred towards too little, though, so it'll be an inconvenience, not a disaster, if I got it wrong."

"Right," Callista said.

They reached the car. A ways off, she thought she could see the silhouette of Samuel still lingering. A few other figures moved in the shadows - the man with the coyote mask, turned away from them, and somebody else.

Daud opened the rear passenger door. "Get her in. Sit with her. Make sure she doesn't choke on her own tongue," he said, and, grimacing, Callista levered herself into the car first. With Daud's help, she managed to get Esma draped over her lap. He shut the door, and for a few brief seconds she was alone in a silent world, Esma staring blankly up at her.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She wasn't built for this. She closed her eyes and thought that if nothing else, she would have saved this woman from Corvo's blade.

The driver-side door opened, and Daud heaved himself in. He pulled his mask off and tossed it into the passenger seat, then glanced back at them. He swore. "Her clothing is going to stand out way too much when we go through checkpoints," he said. "There's a dark blanket in the footwell. Cover her with that. And get that ridiculous hat off of her. Make her look like she's sleeping."

Limbs leaden, she did as he instructed. When she'd gotten Esma situated to his approval, he pulled the car out of the gravel parkway and guided it back out onto the main drive. There was a tense moment as they rolled out past the house guards, but Daud spun a convincing-enough story about taking a sick partygoer home.

Esma certainly looked sick, and her face was turned towards Callista's belly, hiding her features.

The guards let them pass, and soon they were speeding along a road that hooked around the perimeter of the city. Daud reached for the table of bribed checkpoints and handed it back to her. She took it and read him their route.

They were at the docks within half an hour. Esma mumbled in her sleep and turned slightly. Callista stroked her hair. She had a daughter she would go to. The city was burning. The world she'd leave behind was built on filth and shit, and maybe a new start was just what she needed.

Really, they were doing righteous work.

Daud parked the car, then came around and opened the door, helping to pull Esma out. He plucked the fine brooches from her jacket, set aside her nice jewelry. "We'll return this to Lydia," he said, "but where she's going, it would be best if she didn't look so- rich."

Callista grimaced and helped, setting Esma's jeweled hairpin aside, pulling her fine silk gloves from her hands. Those hands weren't as nice as she had expected - her cuticles were bitten and ragged, and there were scratch marks on the backs of her hands, as if she'd drawn her thumbnails across them. She thought of the Esma Boyle who sat with Sokolov and talked of botany.

"What are you thinking?" Daud murmured as he scooped Esma into his arms.

She bit her lip, standing up from the car and tugging down her skirt. "I'm just- noticing the human parts of her."

Daud hoisted Esma's weight against his shoulder and reached out, nudging Callista's mask up and out of the way. She pulled it off and tossed it back into the car. "It's unpleasant," he said.

She nodded.

"I came up with all sorts of ways of dealing with it. When I was a younger man," he said as she shut the car door and they turned towards the docks proper, "I mocked myself for caring. I told myself that I'd chosen my path, and that a killer couldn't care about humanity."

How young had he been? She followed along, heels clicking too loud on the road that wound down to the bay's edge. Her feet ached.

"And when you were older?" she asked.

Daud shrugged, then repositioned Esma's weight in his arms. "Sometimes I ignored it. Refused to look at their hands or their eyes. But that doesn't always work when you're tracking somebody for days or weeks." He glanced back, and she wondered what he'd noticed when he was following _her_. "Most recently," he said, more softly, "I've just... looked. I've noticed everything. I make it a part of the job, if I can."

"And Jessamine?" she asked, because she was too nervous to ask about herself.

"I didn't look closely enough," he said. "I reverted." His voice grew bitter. "I told myself she was nobility, like all the rest, and I never noticed that her feet weren't planted on shifting shit. I made myself focus on the downfalls of her reign, of her business decisions, and I stared at them until they eclipsed the rest of her." He shook his head. "She was a far better woman than I knew. But I still killed her. I drove a blade through her gut. I watched the life leave her eyes, and then I looked at the child's blue eyeshadow that - I know now - Emily had put on her just that morning. Little details."

His shoulders were tense beneath his suit, and Callista followed silently, unsure of what to say. She pictured Emily's mother dead at his feet, Emily watching on, screaming, _screaming_- and she made herself focus on it. But she could still feel the memory of his breath hot on her neck.

They were saving Esma Boyle's life. How much could a man change?

"There," Daud said, slowing. She stopped beside him, leaning forward and peering into the foggy night. There was a small ship down there, and a figure with a lantern. The figure sat on a pylon of the dock. "I'd guess that's our woman. Let me lead," he said.

"Gladly," she mumbled, as they crossed the last hundred or so yards to the pier.

The figure didn't move as they approached. She was filing her nails as they reached her, her red hair pulled back tight. It gleamed as if oiled. As they stepped into the pool of light of her lantern, she looked up and smiled, revealing pointed teeth.

"There you are. I've been waiting."

"Am I late?" Daud said, hands curled protectively around Esma.

"Our mutual employer didn't give me a timetable. But yeah. I've been here since nine."

When they'd left the car, the clock had read ten thirty.

"That was foolishly optimistic," he said. "We couldn't start until eight."

Lizzy Stride hissed and shrugged. "Right, whatever. I've got the boat ready."

Daud glanced beyond her. "And the man in the boat?"

Lizzy blinked lazily. "What man?"

"The one hunched over hiding by the wheel," Daud sighed. "Identify him."

She shrugged again, then stood up on her bare feet, warped from years of walking unshod. "Somebody who's bought into our little venture. Not your concern."

Daud held his ground. "I need a name, and a motive, before I turn the cargo over."

Callista flinched at _cargo_. This woman clearly wouldn't appreciate Esma's humanity, but it still plucked at her to think that maybe Daud didn't, either.

Lizzy came close, peering at Esma's now-sleeping face. "She's a pretty one. Think I've seen her on the news before." Casually, she glanced over her shoulder. "Bet he knows exactly who she is."

"And who is _he_?" Daud murmured, gravel turning his words sharp at the edges.

"Lord Timothy Brisby," Lizzy said. "Friend of whoever it is you're holding there, he says. Says he'll manage the connection at the other end. He's got good money, too."

Callista stepped forward, touched Daud's elbow. He canted his head and she leaned close enough to whisper, eyes fixed on Lizzy Stride, "A Miss White mentioned that name. Something about getting the 'objects of his affection' on their own."

His lips pulled into a mockery of a smile. "You're going to get him off that boat, Stride," Daud said. "He's not a part of this job."

"Got the coin to make it worth it?"

"You've got his coin," he said. "I never said you have to give it back. And do you really want a lordling on a trip all the way to Whitecliff?" He shook his head. "Re-evaluate, Stride. He's more trouble than he's worth."

She bared her filed teeth again in a moment's frustration. "What's crawled up your ass and died, Daud?" she asked. "What happened to _business is business_?"

_A few run-ins_ sounded a lot more like old jobs, and Callista watched them both, warily. Daud's expression had turned hard, unflinching.

"I need the deal to go on unbroken," he said. "If our mutual employer finds out-"

"She won't."

"And if her sister," he said, hoisting Esma up in his arms a little, "comes back maimed or worse? She's got powerful friends, Stride."

"Don't tell me how to run my jobs."

"I know Burrows' regime can't be easy on you, with the increased river patrols."

Her jaw worked. She ignored Callista, and Callista let her.

"Get rid of Lord Brisby," Daud said, "or I'm taking the cargo myself and you're not getting a single coin."

She snarled, but backed away all the same, then turned and stalked down the pier.

Callista let out a breath.

"Go back to the car," he said.

She frowned. "What?"

"Back to the car, in case this gets ugly." He didn't look at her.

She turned and scanned the darkened docks. "What if she has people waiting?"

"... We'll take that risk. Go to the car. Check beneath it and in the backseat. Get in and lock the doors, and get down in the footwell. I'll be back as soon as this is taken care of."

Callista looked at Stride's retreating back, and then took a deep breath and nodded. She didn't want to be there. She wanted to be _home_, or as close to home as she could get. "Right," she said. With one last look at Daud, and one last soothing touch to Esma's limp, scratched hand, she retreated back the way she'd come.

The path was empty. The space beneath the car was only air. She slipped into the car and was alone, buried beneath a dark blanket in the footwell. She bowed her head to her knees, and waited.

The car was still, and she tried not to think about the last time she had lain here, trussed and stripped of her own humanity to be delivered to a waiting prison. She tried not to think of what Esma would think and do when she woke up, or how much she'd hate and fear and rage. She hoped only that Esma would see her little girl again.

There was only the faintest pop of what might have been a distant, silenced gun, and then nothing else until finally the driver-side door opened. She jerked up. Daud looked back at her. "We're good," he said, and slipped behind the wheel. "Esma is on her way to Whitecliff, alive."

"And Stride and Brisby?"

"Brisby is waiting for an ambulance," he said. "Lizzy pulled the trigger."

Callista didn't question him as they pulled away from the marina.

* * *

"We have one last stop," Daud said as they rolled past the turn towards Rudshore.

Callista had climbed into the passenger seat again, and now she stared out at the bleak, unchanging scenery. She mumbled some half-hearted inquiry. She was tired now, so tired, and her thoughts kept turning to Esma, alone in that little boat with a woman with filed teeth.

"We're going to drop off Esma's things and update Lydia. And then our part in all of this will be finished. Acceptable?" He glanced towards her. "I could double back and drop you off, if you're worried about Emily."

"No, it's fine," she said. "I want to go. I want to talk to Lydia."

She twisted in her seat, bending over the center console and gathering, piecemeal, all of Esma's finer things they had discarded.

"It will be quick," he said.

"Do you think- Corvo will have finished his part?" she asked, plucking up a brooch.

"If he has, it may make things more difficult," Daud said. "At the first sign of police lights, we're turning back."

"Right," she said, stretching to catch hold of the hat and the mask tucked inside its crown.

She straightened and settled her bundle in her lap, a hat filled with all sorts of trinkets, and the molded visage that had been Esma to her for so much of the night. She ran her fingers over the latch that let the chin drop away.

"What do you think Esma's chances are?"

"Ninety percent. Stride and I exchanged a few more words, after you left." They pulled through a checkpoint into the estate district - a different one this time. Callista was halfway to the chart when he waved a hand. "I'm good, I looked it over," he said.

They drove alongside the canal from the other direction, then crossed an elegant bridge. Daud took them into the garden drive once more, and parked their car close to where it had been before. He opened the door and leaned out.

"Samuel's still there," Daud said. Then he glanced at Callista. "Mask back on," he added, reaching for his own, "and leave Esma's things in the car, covered up but easily gotten to. We'll ask Lydia what she wants us to do with them."

Callista nodded and dragged the dark blanket into the passenger seat footwell, wrapping everything up and tucking it aside. Then she pulled her blue mask back on, straightened her dress again, and stepped out.

"What do you think Corvo is waiting for?" Callista asked as she joined Daud.

"For the Pendleton twins to be alone, if he's smart," Daud said. "He's probably waiting upstairs in the bedrooms, which is why we didn't see him. I think-"

A blinding flash of light bathed the garden, followed by a deafening blast, and her vision went white as Daud swore and grabbed hold of her, bearing her down to the ground. He covered her body with his as more explosions went off, a series that threaded through the entire manor house. In the gaps between his jacket and his neck and his head, the sky was as bright as day. Her ears rang, and her nose burned with sudden heat and ash and acrid stench.

The manor was in flames.

Daud, hunched over her, twitched and pressed down when she squirmed. She shoved her hands against his chest. His head lifted, and she pushed out from under him, staggering to her feet. He grabbed at her wrist and nearly pulled her down again.

"Let go," she whispered, and lost the words beneath the hammering in her heart and the hollow rushing in her ears.

She stared through the skewed eyes of her mask, the papier mache dented and heavy on her cheeks. The building was on fire, crumpled in on itself, and she could see no shadows moving in the wreckage. Nobody crawled from the rubble. There was only the slide and creak and groan of collapsing walls and ceilings.

Heat beat against her in waves, and she could taste it now, the fire and death and panic. It consumed all the air hemmed in by the distant trees, stained the sky below the clouds.

A figure detached itself from the twisting shadows near the edge of the estate. She watched as it flickered and jumped, crossing ten or fifteen feet in a single step. Its shoulders were stooped, and its head was covered in a hood and mask.

It stepped into the flaming wreckage, and before it disappeared, she saw it draw a knife.

Daud shifted his grip on her forearm and yanked hard enough that her weakened knees buckled, and she crashed down on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her against him, hunching them both close to the drive. She heard his throat work, felt his heart thud strong against her back. His mask hung around his neck, brushing at her bare shoulder.

"He killed them all," Callista whispered.

"He's a fool," Daud whispered, growled. "We need to get out of his path. We need to _go_."

"Lydia-"

"Is dead or dying. The ambulances are on their way. Come _on_, Miss Curnow."

She turned her pale face and empty, stunned gaze to him.

"Callista," he murmured, and her hands twisted in the fabric of his jacket as she nodded and tried to stand.

Hunched over, they made their way back to the car, and Daud swore as he saw the figure that had to be Samuel, seemingly unaffected, turn towards them. And then Samuel looked away. They climbed into the car and Daud, switching the headlights off, pulled them away from the estate with no sound above the roaring, building fire.

Callista bowed her head to her knees and tried to remember how to breathe.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks to my betas, CaliforniaStop and TheTeratophile! And thank you to Taokan for getting me to write this fic!_

* * *

_**Chapter 11**_

The car screeched to a halt in front of Wolfhound, the scent of burning rubber thick on the air, and as soon as the car was in park, Daud was out. Callista followed, stumbling in her heels.

"Daud-"

"I need to talk to Martin," he snapped.

"Daud, what if Corvo-"

"He's busy, I'm sure," he snarled, head snapping around to look back at her. She stumbled again, legs leaden and unsteady. He grabbed her upper arm, tightly at first. Then the pressure eased, and he swallowed, schooling his expression into something more approachable. "Lose the mask, Callista. And get yourself a drink. I'll get you home soon, this just can't wait."

She nodded, and focused on walking alongside of him once her mask was off. She made it into the club, mask dangling from her hand, without tripping again. The music was loud and pounding, and it threatened to obliterate the last shreds of her focus and self-control.

They moved around the dancefloor - busy as always - and he settled her in a quieter booth near the bar. "I'll be right back," he murmured. "And I'll have them send you over something. What do you want?"

"I don't care," she said, tossing the mask onto the seat beside her and balancing her elbows against the tabletop, pressing her face into her hands.

Daud's touch lingered on her shoulder for a moment, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

All she could see was the Boyle estate in flames, the rafters crashing down, the walls collapsing, Corvo stalking into the destruction with his knife drawn. Had he found each partygoer, checked their pulse, then slit their throat if they were still alive? How many had died? She tried to imagine him as somebody who could protect Emily, take care of her - but couldn't.

Her mouth filled with bile and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She didn't know if it was a minute or half an hour later when she heard the clunk of a glass set down on her table. She mumbled a thank you and groped for it, fingers finding it as the barstaff's footsteps retreated into the shuffling din.

She had it against her lips - whiskey from Morley, by the smell of it - when a hand slammed into the table. She jerked back, spilling droplets of whiskey across her lips and down the front of her dress, eyes shooting open even as she cringed. The hand was covered in heavy, glittering rings, and she slowly raised her eyes to its owner.

Treavor Pendleton stared back at her, expression an unreadable twist of high emotion. His fingers curled against the polished wood. Behind him, hand on his shoulder, was a concerned-looking woman with blonde hair pinned up in curls, red lipstick smeared just a touch at the corner of her mouth.

"_What happened out there_?" Pendleton demanded, eyes wild. "They're on the news saying there was some kind of explosion!"

She nodded, numbly.

"An _explosion_!"

Her throat worked. No answer came out.

"I'm sure they'll find them," the blonde woman said, hand now running down his skinny back. "Lord Treavor-"

"Get your hands off of me," he snarled, twitching away from her, and the woman winced, then wrinkled her nose.

"I'll wait for you at the bar, then?" she asked.

"... Have Wallace drive you home," Treavor muttered. His skin couldn't decide if it should be white with horror and shock, or purple with rage, and, as Callista watched, it grew splotchy in uneven, unflattering patterns. The wine on his breath probably wasn't helping. She curled her hands around her cup and fought the urge to draw her knees up to her chest.

The woman - very pretty and obviously very worried - grimaced, but Treavor wasn't looking back at her. She folded her hands together. And she left.

Callista watched her go, then glanced back at Treavor. "You probably shouldn't be alone," she said, softly. "If your brothers-"

"Who set that bomb?" Pendleton had finally straightened up from the table, and now fished a flask out of his jacket pocket, uncapping it and taking a long swig.

"Not us. Probably Corvo," she said, flinching at the memory of how white the sky had gone.

"I told Martin he was dangerous," Treavor hissed. "That he wouldn't do the job nicely. My brothers- I _hated_ my brothers, but they deserved better than going up in flames. And with that _company_, no less! And the Boyle sisters- are they at least well? I bet they're not. He's a loose cannon." He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "And what were you doing there, anyway? Martin said you were supposed to stay _here_!"

"Daud asked me to go," she mumbled into her drink.

"Oh, yes, because Daud is so trustworthy, too. Where was _he_? He should have _done_ something."

How much did Martin tell him? She sipped at her whiskey and didn't look at Pendleton, with his rumpled suit and grief-wracked face. He was the money, Daud had said, and the government influence in Parliament, no doubt. Would Martin have told him about Lydia Boyle's threat?

Probably not.

"I thought he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Attano," he said.

No, Martin hadn't.

"Well, at least that bastard Shaw is probably dead," Treavor mumbled as he tilted his flask up again. Then he snarled, his high, wheedling voice twisting with rage. "I was supposed to be _happy_ they were dead! That was the idea! I get the _money_, I get a life without _them_, but instead of getting a knife in the back, they're blown to pieces at a costume party along with half the Dunwall elite!" He slumped into the seat across from her.

"It's not fair," he muttered.

She shook her head. "At least people might not guess they were the targets?" she offered.

He scowled.

"... I... suppose you have a point," he said, then rattled his flask. It was empty.

Callista set her glass down and nudged it across the table to him.

"Yes," he said as he took up the whiskey without even a half-mumbled thank you, "yes, I guess that's the best of it. There's likely to have been a good fifteen or twenty people that could've been the targets, if the masses don't think it was just symbolic. If... if when the news picks it up, I just... make it seem like I think it's a tragedy..." He pursed his lips. "I bet they'll all think the Boyles were the targets. Esma's sleeping with the Regent, anyway. Makes her a target."

It said something, she thought, that Treavor didn't consider setting his brothers up as ill-treated martyrs. Even _he_ couldn't lie about his family like that.

"And it'll all be very sad and I guess I can... Wallace!" he shouted, lifting his head.

"You sent your date home with him," Callista reminded him, gently.

Treavor frowned. "Why'd I do _that_?"

"I think because she was trying to comfort you."

He finished off her whiskey and stood, unsteady. "_Wallace!_" When he got no response, he dug in his pocket for his phone. Callista looked at her empty glass as Treavor wandered away, rattling off orders. "Yes, bring the car back around. With Gigi, yes. We'll go to my townhouse. The cellars are fully stocked there, right? I want..."

His voice was swallowed up by the crowd.

With half the wealthy and powerful of Dunwall dead or dying in the wreckage of the Boyle estate, what would happen to Martin's grand conspiracy? Every piece she knew he held was threatening to unravel. Things were moving so quickly. Emily had the plague, even if she was slowly recovering from it. Scores of people were dead. The city was on high alert after Campbell's death, and there was rioting in the streets.

Corvo was uncontrollable - because Martin wouldn't have asked for such a devastating explosion.

... Would he?

She stood up and scanned the club for any sign of Daud. Craning her neck, she stared up at the second floor. There- a flash of moving shadow that she felt sure she only recognized from living with him for the last several weeks, from dancing alongside him twice now. He reached the stairs and descended at a clip. She went to meet him.

His jaw was tense, and he jerked his head towards the door. "Come on," he said.

"What is it?"

"Lydia Boyle is still alive."

* * *

Callista stood in a hospital hallway, outside the ICU room that held Lydia Boyle's body. She'd glanced in only once. The sight of her, small and pale, bandaged and bruised, hooked up to what seemed like a hundred different lines and tubes, had brought memories of every relative she'd ever held the hand of, waited for, pleaded for, crashing back over her until she'd barely been able to breathe.

Daud remained inside. He'd taken all of Esma's things and had shown them to Lydia, even though she was largely unresponsive and only nominally stable. Her eyes were closed. Her veins were flooded with morphine. She'd been moved from the ER three hours ago, and she'd only woken up twice. She'd lost her right arm in the blast, and it was incredible that the shock and the blood loss hadn't taken her.

What was even more amazing was that Corvo hadn't found her, either.

There were half a dozen other partygoers in the ward, and a few others transported to different hospitals. She could hear the nurses talking with the police officers who had been involved in the salvage and rescue. Not all of the casualties had been from the explosion, or the subsequent fire and collapse. At least seven were definitely caused by a knife to the throat or, in one case, the femoral artery, as the victim's throat was covered by rubble. Waverly Boyle had been among them.

Lydia was relatively untouched.

Callista worried at her fingers and the hem of her dress. She'd forgotten the mask back at Wolfhound. Daud had called back on the drive over to have Havelock destroy it before Corvo returned. He'd gotten two other calls on the way, both from Martin, both demanding updates.

"He's angry," Daud had told her. "He's raging, because he's stuck at his bloody Feast, and I think he's scared this will push their reactionary fear swing too far and make them pass over him, despite the safeguards he's put in place." His lips had curled and twisted.

"Is that a good thing?" she'd asked.

"It's hard to predict the actions of a desperate man," Daud had said.

She should have demanded he leave her behind, let her go home. She wasn't good at hospitals. She wasn't good at injury, at death - except she supposed she had a lot of experience in enduring it all. Still, the smell of antiseptic, the beeping of monitors, all of it brought back too many memories of days and weeks spent in waiting rooms, at bedsides.

She'd been too young and too scared to go into her father's hospital room to tell his unresponsive but still barely-alive body goodbye, that she loved him, that she would miss him. She hadn't made the same mistake again. The regret had torn at her, and she had learned to brave closure, because it was necessary.

But right now, the thought of going into Lydia Boyle's room made her gut twist and turn.

_There was nothing we could do_, she told herself again. If they'd come back sooner, they would have been caught in the blast. If they'd never left at all, Esma would have died with them. And if they'd come back later - the only difference would've been where they were when they saw the sky turn white.

Callista was very, very tired of there being nothing she could do. She leaned heavily against the wall and thanked everything she knew that she was too tired and too well-practiced to cry.

The door opened. Daud stepped out into the hallway. The nurses had made him switch out his leather gloves to purple latex, and they looked absurd against his suit. She looked up at his face.

"She's awake," he said, and nodded his head toward the door. "And she wants company. Can you..."

She shook her head.

"You're better at this than I am," he said, lowly. "And I need to go see if Martin's called again." He'd had to leave his phone out at the reception desk.

"I can't go in there," she said, and took a deep breath as she felt her voice threaten to crack. "I did this to her."

He sighed. "And what pointless logic is getting you to that conclusion?"

"I brought Corvo into Martin's path," she said, softly.

"Yes, and I'm the one who put you into Corvo's path. Do you want me out of that room for good?"

She bit her lip, unable to decide.

He reached out and took her shoulder, bare and chilled in the dry hospital air. "Just sit with her for ten minutes. She wants to know Esma's safe. Show her what you brought for her."

"I can't," she said, looking down at her feet, now red and sore around the edges of her shoes.

"You can," he said. "You will. Don't leave her alone."

And then he left _her_ alone, in the midnight hum of the hospital. In another room, halfway down the hall in the opposite direction, an alarm sounded. There was shouting. Rushing. Callista swallowed and stepped into Lydia's room, shutting the door behind her.

Lydia turned her head towards the door.

She'd still been wearing her mask when the bombs went off, and though the ER team had managed to pull the shattered fragments from her face, Callista could still see the pockmarked cuts across her right cheek and jaw. Her nose was broken, and one eye was swollen shut. The last time she'd woken up, the nurses had removed her tracheal tube, but the oxygen mask she wore now chafed at her burned skin.

Callista settled into the chair next to the bed, pumping antibacterial soap into her hands and scrubbing down, trying not to look at Lydia.

She made a rough, hoarse noise. Callista looked up. "Daud will just be a minute," she said, trying not to stare at the monitors behind her - or flinch away from them. "He said you wanted company?"

Lydia nodded, weakly. Through the window, Callista could see the dim, watery dawn. It felt wrong, that the night was over but Lydia was still stretched out in a hospital bed.

"Esma's safe," Callista said, looking down to rummage in the bag Daud had put Esma's things into. It defeated the purpose of the hand sanitizer, she knew, but she didn't care. Her fingers closed around Esma's brooch. "Do you want to see her things again? Would that- help?"

She glanced up. Lydia shook her head.

Callista set the bag down and straightened up. "We didn't know," she said, softly. "We didn't know. Maybe Martin did, but..." Her voice cracked and she tilted her head back, took a deep breath. "I don't think... he'd be that foolish. I'm sorry."

Something scraped against fabric. Callista looked down. Lydia's remaining hand curled against the sheets. She moved it awkwardly, but soon she was pointing towards her stump of a shoulder.

"... They had to remove your arm," Callista said, softly. The weight of it was crushing, even on her own tongue, but Callista reminded herself that she'd have only found out on her own given another minute. "We weren't here then, but the nurse said it was necessary."

Pain flashed across Lydia's face, and she closed her eyes. Her heart rate spiked, the monitors beeping faster. Beneath her oxygen mask, she wet her cracked and scabbed lips.

Leaning close, Callista made out her whisper of, "Piano."

Callista closed her eyes and shook her head. Lydia let out a brief, hitched sob.

The door opened, and Callista turned to see Daud. His expression was stony. Callista got to her feet and caught him by the door.

Daud looked past her. "Arnold Timsh," he said, "was confirmed dead half an hour ago. He was an unlisted guest at the party, apparently. Lydia Boyle's threat holds no more weight." His hands squeaked in their fresh latex gloves as he curled them into fists. "Lydia Boyle is a liability."

Panic shot through her, and she shook her head, sharply.

"_No_." She stared up at him, what was left of her spirit crumpling. The metal of it creaked and groaned and protested, and she felt it grow close to snapping.

"I don't make the rules," Daud said, staring at the woman in the bed who cradled the stump where her arm should've been.

Callista didn't care what that woman had or hadn't done. She didn't care if her house was built on bones and blood and shit. She was a woman who would never play the piano again, whose sisters were gone, and all Daud had to offer was a waiver of responsibility before- what? How would he do it? Drive a knife through her chest? Inject air into her IV line?

"No," she said again, and tried to stand between them.

Daud finally looked down at her. "Go out to the car, Miss Curnow," he said, softly.

"_No_."

He grimaced. "Please. Trust me on this. Go out to the car."

"Let him send Corvo to finish the job," Callista hissed.

Daud shook his head. "Trust me, Callista," he said. "Wait in the car. I'm doing this for your sake."

"I'll call for the nurses," she said.

"That will only make things worse for everybody. Including Lydia." He reached for her hand; she jerked back from him. "Step aside, and trust me. Let me work."

"You're going to kill her," she whispered, trembling, eyes burning with rage and tears.

"... In a manner of speaking," he said.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Trust me," he said again. "Trust me, or hate me, but let me do my work."

Callista looked over her shoulder at the woman who was so wholly oblivious to them debating her fate. "Promise me it won't hurt."

"I can't."

"Promise me she'll be okay."

"I am no sister of the Oracular Order, Callista. I can't promise the future like that."

She turned back to him and ducked her head. "Promise me _something_."

He didn't respond for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "I promise that... I will choose the best path available, and that you'll understand when it's done. Is that enough, Callista?"

She nodded.

_In a manner of speaking_.

Holding her breath, she left the room.

She made her way out of the hospital on leaden legs and blistered feet. How easy would it be to turn to a nurse, a security guard, a janitor, and tell them that she was being held captive, though not strictly against her will? She could just tell a police officer that she'd been present at the party, that she'd seen the explosion. She could confess that she had seen Corvo Attano at the scene. She could confess that there was a conspiracy.

Burrows would remain in power. He would take control of Emily, if she survived the chaos. Nothing would be gained. But _she_ would have undone Martin's work and taken back some measure of control.

It wasn't worth it.

The early morning was quiet and empty, and she made her way towards the visitor lots. What would Daud do? Would he kill Lydia gently? She hoped so. She hoped, too, that he had some kind of plan that would let him _save_ her, instead. Would he somehow switch the records, leave the world to think that Lydia was Waverly, and that it was the middle Boyle sister who would burn to ash within a fortnight?

Callista found Daud's car and leaned against it. After a moment, she toed off her shoes. She watched the sun rise over the river, and she tried to tell herself that she had done all she could.

Esma Boyle was alive. That was enough.

What would it have been like, to leave with her and Lizzy Stride? To go to Whitecliff? Maybe she could have gone further. Maybe she could have gone to Tyvia, or even to Serkonos, hoping that some last trace of her blood still lived there in the warm sun.

If she'd refused to come with Daud...

She was fading fast by the time Daud appeared from between the rows of cars and the pillars of concrete. He wore his leather gloves again. His hair had come down from its pomade and he looked as tired as she felt. She watched him approach.

He stopped a few inches short of her.

"It's done," he said.

She swallowed around the twisted lump in her chest. "She's dead, then?"

He took a deep breath. "I can't tell you. For your own safety."

"What do you mean?"

"If Martin ever doubts me, he could come to you. Hurt you. I don't want you to... have anything to give him."

Callista stared at him, then laughed, ducking her head. "He wouldn't torture me, Daud," she said, softly. "We both know he'd just kill me. He'd never think I was actually worth anything."

Daud made a strangled sort of sound in his throat, and she looked up, expecting to see him shaking his head in denial. Instead, he only stared at her, the same way he had when the music had stopped and they'd been left gasping for breath in each other's arms.

He licked his lips. "I... she's dead on all the paperwork that matters. I called in some favors. She's under the care of a Dr. Galvani, who will make sure she survives the next week or two, and then will find a way to get her either into the Academy for further care, or out of the city, if it comes to that."

_She's alive_.

Her eyes widened. The creaking, groaning scaffolding of her spirit stabilized, and the rush of it left her dizzy. Lydia was alive. Daud had gone beyond himself. The whole world was a spinning mess, but he had never lied to her, and he had brought them through the night to something far less wretched than she could have hoped for. She smiled. And then she reached forward, grabbing hold of Daud's lapels, and kissed him.

Daud exhaled sharply in surprise against her lips, and she would have pulled away, except that his arms closed around her and he pulled her close, cradled her against him as his lips parted for her. His tongue trailed along the seam of her mouth and she opened her eyes to find his closed tight.

He trembled, and she leaned into him, catching his lower lip between hers. Her hands tightened on his suit, and he pressed her back against the car, exploring in hesitating, hungry strokes. Esma had been right- he kissed like he wanted to devour her, to mark her. The wolf who had hunted her at the party was back, and she thrilled to it at the same time as she hesitated, nervous, wary.

She pulled back for air, and then slumped against him, head on his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

"This isn't," he rasped, "how I expected the night to go."

"No," she said into the fine wool of his suit. Exhaustion and panic crept in to sour her relief.

What was she doing? She let go of him, but she couldn't step away. It wasn't just how he had her pinned; she didn't want to, not yet. She wanted the madness to last another few seconds, another minute. Mr. Wolf, being hunted by his own prey.

She shut her eyes tight.

Daud let go of her, hands pressing instead against the car for a moment before he pulled back entirely, running a hand through his mussed hair. He cleared his throat. "I think things have gotten- enough out of hand for one day," he muttered.

She nodded, and stood, wrapping her arms around herself. When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her. She saw the hunger still lurking, but overlaying it was a close, tight control. He was mastering himself, and she could see it in the tension tightening his posture.

A part of her wanted to touch his hand, his shoulder, his jaw; to return to the tower and collapse beside him in his narrow bed; to be reminded that they were both living, breathing people, fallible and enduring. A part of her just wanted to touch him.

The rest of her walked herself around to the passenger side door.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12**_

"Is this the mask you wore?"

Callista smiled as she shut the door. Emily was sitting up in bed, deer mask dangling from one small hand. It was mid-afternoon, and Callista had managed just enough sleep that she could ignore how monumentally horrible the past sixteen hours had been.

"It is," she said, coming to settle down next to Emily's bed. Ms. Brooklaine and Cecelia had been sent home, and Piero and Sokolov had announced Emily was well on her way to full health. Things were- better. Not okay, but better. "Do you like it?"

Emily held it up to her own face. The snout of the mask completely covered her small nose and chin. "Why'd he pick it?"

"I think because it was blue," Callista said.

"What did he go as?"

"A wolf," she said. _A hungry, stalking wolf, who kissed like he was starving_-

She dug the fingers of her left hand into her thigh. Emily didn't seem to notice the faint blush Callista could feel burning beneath her skin, instead setting the mask down again and peering at it. "I guess that makes sense," she said at last. "And what did Corvo go as?" she added, her tone almost entirely conversational.

Callista could still hear the hopefulness.

"I..." She looked up and tried not to flinch at the rush of memory, the flash and roar of the mansion exploding, the dark figure silhouetted in the flames. "I'm- not sure. We were all masked, he could have been anybody in that room."

Emily hid her frown with a tight little smile, and turned to look out her window. "So you didn't give him my message?"

"I didn't get a chance to, I'm sorry," she said, reaching out to put her hand on the edge of the bed. If it had ever been her place to offer Emily Kaldwin a reassuring touch, Callista was fairly certain she'd lost that honor somewhere between abandoning her and fraternizing with the enemy.

"But you saved the woman you meant to save?"

"We did."

"So he didn't kill anybody?"

Callista's throat tightened.

Emily's brow furrowed and she bit her lip hard. Callista watched her thin shoulders heave with the effort of not crying. And then she closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and mastered herself. She was only ten, going on eleven, Callista thought, helplessly. She shouldn't have needed to be that strong.

"Last night," Emily said, finally, opening her eyes and staring straight ahead, "what did Daud mean when he said Martin would move us? Martin's the Overseer who came to visit me, right? He told me he was trying to find a way to get me out of here. But that's not true, is it?"

"He is trying to get you out of here," Callista said, fingers digging into her leg again. "He's doing his best to keep you safe. There are a lot of people out there who would hurt you."

"But if he can move us, that means he's the one who put me here, right?"

"Emily..."

"I hate everybody who put me here," she said, quietly. "I hate Daud and I hate Martin and I hate whoever built this place, and I hate you, too. You keep _helping_ them."

Callista flinched. "I know."

"I keep telling you not to. Why don't you _listen_ to me?"

She swallowed, thickly. "Because people are people - we do what we think is best, we make mistakes, we-"

"I'm your Empress!" Emily said, and there were tears in her voice. She stared straight ahead at the far wall. Her skin was still pale and waxen from her fever, her hair unwashed and uncombed for days now, but there was fury in her eyes. "If I tell you what to do, you obey me! That's how it _works_!"

Callista stared at her, at her frail hands fisted in the blankets and at her bloodshot eyes. She was just a girl. But her lips couldn't form the words, couldn't deliver that blow, that Emily's status only mattered here because it kept her alive, made her important.

Slowly, Callista stood. "Do you want something to eat, Emily?"

"Corvo is going to come for me," Emily said, eyes glassy with tears below her furrowed brow, "and when he finds me, he'll kill you _all_. He'll rescue me."

"I hope so," was all Callista could say as she retreated towards the hall.

"Wait!" Emily cried as Callista reached the door. Callista's hand stilled on the knob, and she looked over her shoulder. Emily had crawled to the edge of her bed, mask in her hands again. "Wait, I didn't- Callista-"

_But you did mean it, and I agree with you_, Callista thought, mouth calcified, jaw immobile.

"Please, just help me," Emily said. "I'll tell him to spare you. I will. I just... I want to go home. I want to go _home_, Callista. I don't like it here."

She nodded. "I know," she said. "I'll do my best, Emily. I promise. I'm going to get us something to eat, okay?"

* * *

She didn't see Daud again until the next morning, when he watched Sokolov and Piero pack up their lab. Emily had been declared cured after a battery of tests that had left the girl curled up asleep, or determined to be asleep. Callista had her doubts - she'd seen too many people declared healthy, only to relapse in a week, or a month, or a year, so quickly that there was nothing to do but stand by and watch their downward plummet - but she tried to cling to the relief of it. Grief had not taken Emily, and the plague hadn't, either. She was strong. She'd outlast them all.

With Emily asleep and the library occupied, Callista retreated downstairs. Daud had left her a newspaper by the kettle, and a quick glance showed that it was the front-page splash about the Boyle estate explosion. Waverly Boyle, declared dead at the scene. Lydia Boyle, declared dead early on the morning of the 18th day of the Month of Wind. Esma Boyle, missing, last seen leaving the building proper an hour or so before the explosion. All Boyle sisters survived by Esma's daughter, who had yet to be contacted for comment.

She grimaced, and scanned the list of casualties. Lord Montgomery Shaw, in critical condition at an undisclosed hospital. Miss Adele White, declared dead at the scene. Mr. Ramsey, declared dead at the scene. Barrister Arnold Timsh, declared dead at the scene. Lords Custis and Morgan Pendleton, declared dead at the scene. An unknown number of servants and police officers...

Callista flipped through the other pages, looking for some note from Daud. When she found none, she pulled out the trashbin and tore the newspaper to shreds. Emily didn't need to know what had happened that night. She needed to believe in somebody, even if that somebody was a madman touched by an unfathomable god.

Behind her, she could hear Daud herding the two scientists out. Where would Sokolov go? He'd seen too much. Was a bullet waiting for him downstairs? Another prison? Callista closed the cabinet door and refused to look up at a few brief mentions of her name by Dr. Joplin. They'd saved Emily; that didn't mean she had to be courteous and see them out, only to catch Piero staring at her.

Or worse, see the Outsider watching her through his eyes.

The door to Daud's office shut, and she relaxed. She put herself to work making breakfast. Halfway through, she realized she'd made enough for three, complete with turning the coffee machine on for Daud. Her hand froze reaching for his mug.

If Emily ever found out about how she and Daud had danced, or kissed, any need for her the girl still had would be shot and buried. Callista couldn't blame her. Every time she thought about his arms around her, she would short-circuit between the need and fear and confusion and shame. She expected he felt the same way.

Best to sweep it all under the rug. This would all be over in another few weeks.

She poured his coffee and had it set out on the island for him by the time the door opened again. Daud came in alone. She found herself searching for the scent of gunpowder or blood. Finding none, she hunched over the kitchen counter and ate her toast.

Behind her, Daud picked up his mug, sipped. "I'd advise against going into the library until I can go over it again," he said.

"Sounds reasonable," she said, dusting off her hands and rinsing them.

"How's Emily?"

"Angry. Scared. Tired. The same as she's always been." She shut off the faucet. No water dripped towards the ceiling. "She doesn't know about how the party ended," she added. "Please don't tell her."

"Of course not."

She turned around to find him watching her. "How much time do we have? Before the next..."

He shrugged. "I would assume until the Feast is over and Martin is back. That is, if-" He glanced to the stairs, then back to her. "If Corvo controls himself in the meantime. Martin has Havelock on it, apparently. Havelock and Samuel Beechworth."

"And how is Martin?" she asked, hiding behind a cup of tea.

"Stressed. Frustrated. He can't leave Holger until the decision's made, and he has limited opportunities to call out."

Callista glanced to the stairs as well. "Does that mean we have an opportunity?"

"I'm looking into it," he said. "And I'm trying to- find your uncle. In case we need him, or he needs us. But Corvo's recent actions are making me... wary. Martin's protection might be worth it, for now."

Nodding, she turned to set her cup of tepid tea into the sink.

"That doesn't mean we should be unprepared," Daud added. She froze and glanced over her shoulder. He'd looked away from her, towards the great windows. "Our lessons were interrupted. We're going to resume them."

"Is that really the best idea?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. She remembered his weight pinning her in his arms, against his car- and before that, grappling with him, falling to the mat with him on top of her. She'd been stunned, caught between a flash of fear and the overwhelming presence of him. She turned away, licking her lips and clearing her throat. "Given Emily, I mean."

"I want you to be able to protect her, if the time comes," he said. "And yourself."

"I'm not in the mood for wrestling, Daud."

He made a strangled sort of sound in his throat. "No," he said, "I had something else in mind. Let's get your gun cleaned up."

She spun around. "Daud-"

"I can't get you to a shooting range to practice with it, but we can talk theory," he said. "And we can talk theory in close combat, and in evading capture. We can cover a lot of ground without..." His hands flexed helplessly at his side.

"Trust me?" he asked, his voice faintly pleading.

She leaned heavily against the counter. "You keep asking me to do that."

"It's..." His mouth worked over his uncertainty. "It's important."

"I know." She took a deep breath. "That's why you don't have to ask."

* * *

A week passed in a sort of tightrope dance, her time stretched between Daud's new style of non-contact self-defense lessons, Emily's lessons and quiet loneliness, and her own habit of anxiously staring out the window, wondering who would make a move first. The whole rhythm of her life was in tatters: home was not home, safety was not safe, up was not up, down was not down. While the taps never dripped onto the ceiling in those seven days, her dreams roiled upside down and inside out, leaving her tossing and turning only to wake to find a night had passed.

Emily was strong enough to leave her bed after two days, and she walked around with more imperial majesty than Callista had ever imagined one person could contain. Daud deferred to her, and Callista did her best to mimic him. Emily was scared and weak and fragile, and Callista couldn't bear to discipline her or humble her. If that meant Emily treated her less and less like a person and more and more like a cardboard cutout of a teacher at times - then so be it.

She'd ask about Corvo, and they would shake their heads and say they didn't know. She'd ask about Martin, and Callista would try to change the subject. She'd tell Callista to put on her blue dress, and maybe even her mask, and they'd have story time together, but when Callista said no, her stony, determined adulthood would return in full force.

Two floors below Emily's domain, Daud walked Callista through theory after theory of self-defense. It was exhausting, trying to picture it all in enough detail that she felt like she was halfway prepared, but it kept her busy.

Nine days after the Boyle party, she sank into the chair that a part of her assigned to Daud, and looked out over a city that seemed barely changed. She knew better, though. There were more electrified checkpoints than ever, now. Burrows had rushed them into construction despite Sokolov's absence. There were reports of malfunctions, Daud had told her, and of more riots now that people could barely move between districts, and the plague continued to spread and build towards a tipping point. Soon, rumors wouldn't be rumors anymore. The hospitals would be flooded. More and more people would die, until...

Until Martin restored order?

She rubbed at her temples and opened the book in her lap. She'd almost pulled Lydia's copy of _The Leviathans_, but had settled instead on one of the books on whaling that Daud had, indeed, put aside for her on a single shelf in the library. Now she flipped through the familiar diagrams of whale vivisections and ship schematics. The world had been wild, once, before brave men at sea had put down the whales and other strange and unsettling beasts, pulled oil from their flesh and ground their bones to dust, and from it all developed the science and technology that had brought modern industry to its zenith. The world had been a seemingly endless ocean. Pandyssia had repelled all comers with madness and myths, not the harsh climates they now understood and could exploit.

A part of her had longed for that daring, that dawning confidence, for as long as she could remember. She'd longed for the mastery over death they'd all seemed so sure of. The politics of the slaughterhouses and the original fishing treaties had seemed wondrous to her. When she read of how one of Jessamine Kaldwin's ancestors had put down the Morley Rebellions and sealed the trade deal that had brought Tyvia and its rich waters into the empire, she had wanted to be there, on the water, salt spray soaking her clothing.

That part of her was still there, but common sense and harrowing experience had taught her to be afraid of it. Daud had asked her to remember that part of herself, to channel it. She wasn't sure how to.

She turned to one of the last chapters, on how, when the whalers came home, they were never the same as when they had left. She looked for some kind of hint of how to prevent that change, or manage it, because she suspected she could feel it growing in herself already.

The door to Daud's office opened. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as he approached. He held a phone in his hand, and extended it to her as soon as he was within reach.

"It's Martin," he said, with a grim flicker of a smile. "Congratulations are in order."

She bowed her head for a moment and gave him a tight smile in return, then took the phone.

"Callista Curnow speaking."

"So formal," Martin chuckled on the other end of the line. "Has Daud told you the news, then?"

"Congratulations, High Overseer Martin," she said, watching as Daud went to the window.

"I think," he said, "that I'm in the mood for a celebration."

"It would be well-deserved," she said, feeling indescribably hollow.

"Which is why I'd like you to meet me at the Wolfhound in an hour, ready to go out to dinner. Do you like Tyvian food, Miss Curnow?"

The hollowness turned to a sucking void. She frowned. "I- well enough, yes. High Overseer-"

"We have quite a lot to catch up on," he said, and there was no trace of the anxious, harried Martin of over a week ago. "I'm sure Daud's gotten you some appropriate clothing?"

Her gaze bored a hole in Daud's back, but he didn't turn. "Yes."

"Good. I'll be looking forward to it, Miss Curnow."

The line went dead.

* * *

He looked more at home in his new, blood-red uniform than he ever had in his dull blues, sitting in the Wolfhound or looming in the tower. The doorman at the restaurant, close to Holger Square, simpered and cleared a seat for them in the back of the restaurant, in a finely upholstered booth with more pillows on the benches than were strictly necessary. She tried to ignore the eyes on them, judging, weighing.

"_You are the daughter of a fine policeman who recently went missing_," Martin had told her on the drive over. "_Nobody has reported you missing after over a month; nobody will realize there's anything out of the ordinary_."

She wondered what other explanations people would come up with, what the newspapers would say the next day. Martin didn't seem to mind. He ordered their dinner for them, and spoke idly about the weather and about the public details of the Feast of Painted Kettles. He asked after her health; she replied that it was good. He asked after her uncle; she reminded him that she had yet to hear directly from him.

Wine was poured. Dishes were set down in front of them. Callista tried not to panic, knowing that she was across the city from Daud, that if Corvo thought to follow Martin's indiscreet car, he'd find her and torture her until she told him where Emily was.

"I'll of course be spending more time here in Holger," he said. She barely heard him, barely saw him as he gestured with his glass. "Hopefully making progress on our little project from a position with a great deal more perspective."

She nodded.

"You know," the High Overseer said, dropping his voice to a murmur, "you're really not the most qualified tutor for an Empress." He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table and hands folded beneath his chin.

Her world snapped back into focus. She swallowed. "I know."

"Currently," he said, "it will be difficult for me to... bring you along, so to speak."

Callista pushed a spear of asparagus around her plate, then put her fork down. No sense playing with her food, the way Martin was, no doubt, playing with her.

"Especially," he continued, "given our earlier differences of opinion. I can't have you jeopardizing what will no doubt be a very fragile period in her Highness's life. But I also understand that you and Miss Kaldwin have formed a bond?"

She hesitated, considering the implications of her answer. Which was better, yes or no? No, and she'd be trusted not to be of any danger? Yes, and she was too valuable to lose? And all the while, she could feel Martin watching her, weighing her life against any possible inconvenience from killing her. There wouldn't be any from the outside world - only Emily would scream and scream. Daud, perhaps, would clench his fists and grit his teeth, and perhaps Martin would be stupid enough to give _him_ the job.

But he had to be a clever man, to be High Overseer.

She decided on the truth, and nodded. "She was... distraught, when I left the first time."

"And when Daud went against my instructions and took you along with him on that little date to the Boyle manor?" he asked casually, and she looked up to see him taking a bite of tender fish. She watched him chew, swallow, wash it all down with a sip of effervescent Serkonan wine. "Treavor informed me," he said. "Though I'll admit, I haven't gotten a chance to look at the security footage yet to see what costume Daud chose for you. Well- how did she react to that?"

"She was resigned. She'd been sick for days, Martin." She shoved her hands into her lap to hide how they trembled, how she pulled at her fingers and knuckles because it was all she could do instead of screaming and running.

"And what did you tell her?"

"... That we were going to save a woman's life. I didn't want her to hate me."

"And did she believe you?" He topped off his glass, then nudged hers closer to her. "Drink, Miss Curnow. Enjoy yourself. This isn't an interrogation."

She glanced up sharply. "Then what _is_ it?"

He considered a moment, then held up a hand. "I suppose if I said an interview, you'd tell me it's the same thing," he said with an easier smile than she'd seen him wear in weeks. What had changed? Was it that half the nobles in Dunwall were dead, injured, or terrified out of their wits? That security had been ramped up in response?

Was it that he could wear this new red uniform, so carefully pressed and starched?

"We have had... differences of opinion since we've met. I'd like to smooth them over," he said, spreading his hands wide, then sitting back in his seat. "Your charge is fond of you. That's important. I'm glad that she's found somebody she can trust."

"At least half the time," Callista said, looking away. "She has her doubts."

"But she wants to trust you."

"Yes."

He leaned forward again. "What do you tell her about me?" He kept his voice even and soft, gentle, and she wished she could have trusted him. How much easier it would have been - trusted that he knew what he was doing, that it was all for the greater good. She'd never thought of herself as particularly selfish - not in any real, meaningful way - but she had certainly shied away from the "great work" of his.

"Very little," she said at last. "It wouldn't help her, to know that you're..." She glanced past him to the restaurant.

He smiled a wolf's smile, and she felt more hunted, more cornered, than Daud had ever made her feel. "Orchestrating?" he suggested.

She nodded, hoping he couldn't read from her hunched shoulders, her guarded posture, that while she didn't _tell_ Emily many things, Emily had deduced them all on her own.

He didn't seem to notice. "Eat your dinner, Miss Curnow. I'm glad you're so sensible. That was just a momentary slip, on the phone, hm?"

She nodded and picked up her fork again. She made herself spear a piece of asparagus and eat it in a few large bites.

He watched her throat as she swallowed.

"You can't remain as her tutor, that much is unfortunately true," he said. "But... I will do my best to carve out a space for you. She will need emotional support. A pillar, in the times to come."

"I'm not a nanny, Martin," she murmured, eating a bite of fish. Her stomach felt like it was filled to the brim with lead pellets, jostling for space with each nervous twitch of her muscles.

"Call yourself a confidante, then, if it makes you feel better."

_A confidante she needs to order around to feel safe with. A confidante she only trusts because there's no one else_.

"She'll have Corvo, won't she?" She dared to look at him.

His pale eyes crinkled with mirth.

"You don't really want that, do you?" he whispered. "You've seen what he's capable of. And he's not capable of being a father. Perhaps if I can rehabilitate him..." He trailed off, then shook his head and offered her what she supposed was a reassuring smile. "It will be tricky, the times ahead. I'd like you to put your faith in me."

She nodded. "Of course," she said, and for his gratification, she reached for the wine he'd poured her.

"If I ask for your trust, will you give it to me?" he asked, refusing to look away.

She nodded again, fingers curling tight around the glass's stem. "Of course," she said. The words tasted like ash on her tongue. It was frighteningly easy to give her trust to Daud - but to Martin, it was a struggle. One she couldn't win. "I realize that anything else would be foolish."

"Good," he said. "I'm glad that's settled. I think we'll be effective partners in the days and weeks to come." He turned slightly to glance around the room, freeing her.

She sagged back into her seat in relief and swallowed down half her glass of wine.

* * *

Daud met her at the base of the tower, wearing a heavy wool coat against the brisk night wind. It was the same coat he'd worn the day he'd taken her, she realized as she drew closer. It had a large collar and a broad lapel, and two rows of brass buttons down the front. It hung to his knees, and, along with the scar tracing its way down the side of his face and his ever-present black gloves, it made him look imposing and dignified.

The rush of relief she felt at seeing him grew as he canted his head slightly in greeting. One corner of his mouth twitched up. He opened the door to the building for her, and she stepped in, grateful for the windbreak. She'd gone to see Martin in a black sheath dress with three-quarter length sleeves and no coat.

"I'm sorry for the oversight," Daud said once the door was shut behind them. "Winter's coming faster this year."

She rubbed at her upper arms. "It's okay."

"I'll take care of it tomorrow." He stepped into the elevator, pulling the key card from his breast pocket. She followed. "How was he?"

"Cheerful. Self-assured," she said. The doors to the elevator slid shut and they began to rise. "... Though I think he's planning to remove me from the operation."

Daud hit the stop button; the elevator car shuddered. "What?" he said, the word clipped and sharp. He looked at her, searchingly.

She shrugged, trying to keep her levity in place. Not thinking about the implications of Martin's questions had been the only way to get into the car with him after dinner. "He had questions about my relationship with Emily. He said that he hopes to keep me around as a... companion for her, at least, since I'm not qualified to tutor an Empress in any real capacity. Maybe that's all it is."

Daud shook his head. "No. You wouldn't be scared, otherwise."

"I'm not..." She trailed off and took a deep, shaking breath. "This feels like the time I called Geoff to tell him I thought somebody was stalking me," she said with a weak laugh.

"And you were right that time," Daud said, with a bitter half-smile. "What made you worried?"

"I don't know," she said, rubbing at her mouth and chin. "Something about how intent he was on asking for my trust. And how close I was with Emily. If it were anybody else..." Callista's shoulders hunched forward as she thought. "But with him, I feel like he's weighing his options. Will killing me make Emily hate him? Will Emily ever realize he did it? Can he get you to do it, or blame it on you? He's planning to kill - or _rehabilitate_ - Corvo. And he asked about how much I've told Emily about him. I think he's getting ready for a big move."

Daud nodded, and let go of the stop button. But instead of selecting the floor where his office was, he picked one floor down.

"Really?" she asked. "Tonight?"

"We're not practicing, don't worry," he said as the elevator lurched into motion again. "I... wanted to talk. Somewhere private."

The elevator doors let them out on the practice floor, and he led her without another comment to an unmarked door across the main room. He unlocked it with a key secreted in another pocket. It opened onto the emergency stairwell, and she followed as he climbed.

"The doors to the penthouse are blocked off," he said, "walled over. So this is the only way up to the roof."

Three flights of stairs later and he let her out onto the top of the apartment building, where the wind was colder and faster, and she could see all the way to Kaldwin's Bridge and beyond, to Kingsparrow Island. She shivered at a biting gust of air, curling her arms around herself.

"It's not quite a fancy restaurant," he said, "and all the food's downstairs waiting, but it's at least private, and I brought a bottle of wine up." She could barely make out his expression in the clouded dark, but as she watched, he shrugged out of his coat and crossed the small space between them, draping it over her shoulders.

"And there are no cameras," she said, trying not to think about the wine, or how she could see the bottle and two glasses tucked against the stairwell wall, out of the wind, a few feet away.

"There are no cameras," he agreed. "There aren't any on the training floor; as far as he knows, we're still in that elevator."

"Still conspiring."

He shrugged. "Perhaps I'm threatening you. Perhaps I'm demanding to know what he told you. We can let him imagine."

She couldn't help her smile at that. His hands lingered on her shoulders until, clearing his throat, he retreated to lean up against the side of the stairwell wall. She settled in beside him, half a foot away. The wall broke some of the wind.

"If Martin is going to make a big move soon," Daud said, pulling a cigarette and lighter from his breast pocket, "that probably means Burrows is next. I can't imagine who else is still on his list that counts as _big_."

"Unless it's not a person," she said. "Corvo's already shown a willingness for wanton destruction. Would Martin gain anything by disrupting the monorail systems? Shipping?"

"The monorail line is already shut down," Daud said, wedging the cig between his lips. A little flame leaped to life in the cupped shelter of his hand. "And it'd be a tremendous production to shut down shipping, and dangerous for the stability of Martin's resulting rule." He took a brief drag, then plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out to her without a word.

She took it, turning it over in her fingers. Had he even intended to smoke it himself? Her chest tightened and she tried not to smile as she placed it between her lips and took a long drag.

"It's _possible_," Daud continued, "that he could attack the power grid, or some other piece of infrastructure, but he'd run into the same problems - he'd have to go about _fixing_ it all. Quickly, too - the rioting is getting worse out there. His cure for the plague that Sokolov is no doubt working on will go a long way to legitimizing him, but..."

Callista nodded. "It's probably Burrows," she agreed.

"Which means things are going to change very soon. I think you're right, that he's trying to figure out how to get rid of you. You don't support his plan - he knows that. But Emily will hate him if he takes you away. Hopefully that will keep him thinking for a while."

"So, what do we do?" she asked. "I don't... want to die." The words were leaden on her lips, and she looked away quickly.

He snorted, and she flushed in embarrassment. And then he shrugged, the fabric of his suit rustling. "Neither do I."

She looked up at him, surprised he'd admit it - surprised that he even felt afraid.

He regarded her calmly. "We're both expendable as soon as Burrows is down and Martin steps forward, offering Havelock as a replacement," he murmured.

She frowned. "_Havelock_?"

"He has the military history. He has supporters. Martin can't take the throne, and would _you_ like Pendleton up there?"

Sagging back against the wall, she took another drag. "You have a point." Exhaling, she stared out at the city. "... I keep wondering, though, if what we've done is forgivable. I tried to tell Emily I was doing my best to keep her safe, but..."

"You've done nothing wrong," he said, and the sudden force in his voice made her turn to face him. He met her gaze. "Absolutely nothing wrong."

Her brow furrowed and she fought the urge to look away. "I feel- selfish. And dangerous. And changed."

"We're all selfish, and scared. We're _alive_." He pursed his lips, then took the cigarette from her fingers, snubbed it out against the wall. Dropping the butt to their feet, he settled a hand against her shoulder. "And yes, you've changed. You'll never be the woman I followed to that bus stop again. Just like I'll never be the remorseless killer believing totally in his neutrality again. I was _certain_ that the fact that money changed hands made me just a weapon, not an actor - just like you were certain that if you just kept your head down, everything would be fine."

She took a deep, shaking breath. "But we move on," she said.

He nodded. "Exactly. I could cling to what I used to be, and hate it, and lay down to die because of it - but I don't want to die."

Callista couldn't help her bitter smile. "Oh, you still cling to what you used to be. Don't lie about that."

His lips twisted. "I'm trying to make a point," he murmured.

"We move forward," she said, quietly. Around the obstacles and the gaping holes where lives once were. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to him.

His hand slid up to cup her cheek. "I swear to you," he said, "that when Martin makes his move on Burrows, I'll get you out of here. I'll get you to Serkonos, or Tyvia, or wherever is safe for you to go. I'll tap favors I'm owed."

She shook her head. "Get Geoff first?" she asked, quietly. "I don't want to die, but I don't want to be alone, either. And if I'm not useful, Geoff isn't either, right?"

She didn't want to imagine Geoff willingly working for Martin. It couldn't happen.

Daud opened his mouth as if to say something, but couldn't manage a single word. His other hand flattened against the wall beside her, and she watched as he bowed his head, took a deep breath. "Of course," he said at last.

"Do you know where he is?"

Daud nodded. "I found him three days ago. If Martin moves and our safety here is lost, I can get him out."

Relief flooded through her, tinged with a flash of annoyance that he hadn't told her. Still, knowing he was safe took a great load from her shoulders. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Then I'll keep myself safe until you get back with him. And then we'll take Emily and-"

"No."

She frowned. "Daud-"

"Emily is too dangerous to keep with us, and while you're the closest thing she has to somebody she loves, she holds no great affection for either of us."

"She's a _child_."

"Am I wrong, though?" He was standing close enough now that his breath was warm against her cheek. "Tell me I'm wrong, that she'll trust us, that she'll go quietly. That she won't call out to the first police officer she sees. I won't- I _can't_ keep her captive again. Not under my own authority. Not even for her own good."

Callista hesitated, then nodded, looking down between them. Daud's hand returned to her shoulder. "If handing her over keeps her safe..."

"We are selfish creatures," he said, softly. "And with luck, Corvo will be there to stop Martin. He's not a stupid man. Dangerous, but not stupid."

Callista nodded again. "Give me a key card," she said. "So that if Martin comes, I can run."

"I'll move your gun back to your room, too," he said. "And I'll try not to be long. I'll get Geoff to one of my old safehouses, one Martin shouldn't know about, and then I'll come get you. And I'll get the two of you out of this Outsider-cursed city."

She chanced a look up. "Will you come with us?"

"I-" The shadows along his jaw twitched and tensed. "... I want to be here. To protect her if I can. I need to make up for..."

"For being selfish and believing you were only a weapon," she said.

He nodded.

"That will get you killed, Daud."

"Maybe," he said. "Probably." He looked past her, over the city.

"I don't want you to die." She settled her hand on his sleeve, curled her fingers into the fabric. She felt him stiffen under her touch.

She searched his face. There was a flicker of pain, there, quickly engulfed by surprise, and he turned to her with his lip slightly parted. There was wonder in his eyes.

She almost said something about it, something light and joking to smooth the moment. She almost asked about the wine, about if this really was his idea of a date to counter Martin's dinner. Her mouth was already open a fraction of an inch.

And then he leaned forward and kissed her, his mouth filled with the taste of smoke and whiskey, bright enough that it couldn't have been more than half an hour since he'd drank it. Her fingers fisted into his suit, and she pressed up against him, leaving the safety of the wall. The leather of his glove slid against her jaw as he cupped her face, and he wrapped his other arm around her.

This time, there was no feeling of momentary madness. She parted her lips and he dragged her lower lip between his. His coat slid from her shoulders but she barely noticed, devoted to mapping out the contours of his jaw and cheek with her free hand, tracing the pattern of his scar. He mumbled something unintelligible against her mouth in return, then dotted kisses along the line of her mouth.

She trusted him with every inch of herself. The part of her that had longed to chase after whales needed him, craved him, understood him. She smiled against his mouth and murmured his name, and was rewarded by his hands tightening on her, desperate and possessive. She half-expected him to pull away, to mumble some excuse of why he didn't deserve her, to remind her he was a killer. He never did.

He was trailing kisses along her jaw when she saw it, opening her eyes for half a second in a flutter of giddiness. Out across the river, over Dunwall Tower, floodlights clicked on and shone brilliant white against the cloud cover. She went still and stiff. Daud faltered on his path along her jaw, and lifted his head.

"Look," she managed.

He turned.

"... Martin's moving faster than anticipated. If Burrows isn't dead already," he said, hand tightening on her waist, "he will be very, very soon."


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13**_

"Three..."

Callista tensed, hand on the doorknob. She had to move silently, or she'd be found. The door was supposed to be left open; that had been the arrangement. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she began to turn the latch.

"Two..."

The night before was a distant memory, her thoughts blurred by lack of sleep, by dark hallways and dripping water. The latch slid open. She eased the door forward on its hinges.

"One..."

Quickly, she slipped inside and closed the door again, then slunk away from it, back into the shadows of the narrow room. The dark made her desperately want to close her eyes, but the danger was still too close. Daud had left hours ago. She hadn't slept. And now-

"Ready or not!" Emily called from the main room. "I'm going to _find_ you!"

Callista slumped down against the wall and closed her eyes, pressing her palms over her face as if that would hide her more than Daud's bedroom door already did. Emily wouldn't think to check here; the last ten months had shown her that these doors never opened. It would give Callista a few minutes to simply breathe.

Emily's footsteps pattered this way and that outside the door. She had no idea that the Regent was dead, that Corvo was likely going to be put down like a wild dog, that Martin's plans were nearing their end. She had no idea why Daud was gone.

She had no idea that Callista was going to run in an hour, a day, a week - and never come back.

And she'd had Callista playing an unending game of hide-and-seek since seven in the morning. There had been no classes. There had been next to no breakfast. Callista's head was spinning and her heart was pounding, and Emily had kept her on the run. Callista curled up and took a deep breath.

Emily's footsteps disappeared upstairs.

In the ensuing silence, Callista lifted her head again. She noticed - again - that Daud's bedroom smelled almost nothing like him. It was still meticulously clean, untouched. His suits were all lined up.

His wolf mask sat by his bedside. With a groan, Callista pushed herself to her feet and wandered over to it, picked it up, turned it over.

Her own mask sat on Emily's shelf now, as an offering. She'd half expected Daud to throw his out. After all, why keep it? As a reminder of the job?

As a reminder of Mr. Wolf hunting Miss Deer?

She didn't have time to think about it, or the wine on the roof, or how easy it had been to fall into his arms again. She set the mask down.

A quick glance out his window showed the same eerily-empty Rudshore streets as ever. They wouldn't fill with cars until the Wolfhound opened that night, and even then the number of patrons inside the building would be a stark contrast to the desolation outside. She tried to imagine the water rising in the district. She couldn't even picture the streets filled with flood.

Something scraped against the door and she jumped, turning, expecting to see Emily, all in white, come stalking her prey.

There was nothing there. The door remained shut.

She turned back to the window and rose up onto her toes so she could look down along the side of the building. There were no cars parked on that side of the block, including Daud's. And if it had been Daud, he would have knocked once, opened the door, and told her to pack.

Heart sinking, she turned and crossed the room in a few quick strides and tried the door.

The lock had been turned, gently enough that she hadn't noticed. Swearing, she unlocked it again, then hesitated with her hand on the knob. Who was out there? She hadn't heard footsteps, so it was somebody light on their feet, and probably only one person. Corvo? Or Martin, trying to work fast?

If either was here for Emily, what did it matter? She should lie low, be quiet, wait for them to leave. That had been the plan. Let Martin take Emily. Let Corvo take Emily, if the option arose.

She wanted to vomit. _Let them take Emily_? What had seemed so simple on the roof in the dead of night made her stomach churn now. _We are selfish creatures_, Daud had said, and she didn't doubt it one bit, of either of them, but- she couldn't do this. She _couldn't_.

She turned the knob.

The door caught on something and wouldn't budge more than half an inch.

Heart racing, she shoved her shoulder into the wood and pressed harder. She leaned her whole spindly weight against it and heaved. The door moved maybe a quarter of an inch, then stopped and would go no further. She bit out a swear and tried again. Nothing gave.

Her mind raced. If she tried slamming against the door, it might dislodge whatever was propped against it - but it might also just injure her, or worse, stop the door harder. And what would happen if she screamed for Emily? Would Corvo step out of the shadows and slip a knife between her ribs? Level a gun at her head? Would Martin's face appear, grinning, in the tiny crack in the door? She imagined his taunts and his congenial tone, and she shuddered.

Sucking in deep breaths, she pulled the door shut and listened. Something shifted on the other side, slid against the door. That meant it was just one thing propped against the door, maybe a chair from the dining room, if she was lucky. Maybe if she opened and closed the door _enough_ it would dislodge the chair, and she could get to Daud's office. He hadn't had a chance to move her gun before he left. If she could get to it-

She heard footsteps and held her breath.

They were heavy footsteps, and uneven, as if the walker was carrying something. _Emily_. She hadn't heard a single cry or shout. What had happened? She didn't hear laughing or crying or talking or pleading. She turned the knob ineffectually, then stepped back, looking around wildly. There had to be something. Daud had to have something for this.

"Miss Curnow," Martin's voice came from outside the room, loud enough that she flinched. "I'd advise you to stay put while I get Emily settled. I've confiscated the gun in Daud's desk drawer, the armory is locked, and there are five Overseers waiting in the lobby with orders to execute you on sight. If you cooperate, I'll step down that order to a mere arrest, and we can put this all behind us in a matter of days, hm?"

Callista turned in place, scanning the room. A closet full of suits. A bed. A mask. By the mask, a glass of water. Where would Daud keep a spare gun? She dove for the mattress, pulled it up, and barely noticed when her elbow bumped the glass and sent it skittering to the floor.

"I'd like a verbal acknowledgment, Miss Curnow," Martin continued, "and I'd like it now. If you're in this bloody building, respond; otherwise, I give the word and your uncle is put down. Havelock's men are there now."

_Shit_. There was no gun. There was a knife, though, and she gripped it tightly as she crouched down to check under the bed.

_Knu-ulp_.

Water slithered up from the glass and splattered against the bed frame, then reformed into a droplet and slid to the ceiling. The air grew cold. Callista froze, then stood up and slowly turned.

Daud had a small mirror by his closet, no doubt to fix his tie and hair. She saw her own face, panic-stricken, pale. And behind her, she saw the Outsider, hollow-eyed and staring.

"Miss Curnow, I'm not in the mood to be patient, or generous," Martin called, and his voice was getting angrier. Was Emily resisting? Was she conscious at all? Callista opened her mouth.

The Outsider put his finger to his lips.

Her brows drew down from fear to rage, and she snarled, stepping up close to the glass and pressing a hand against it. "Get out of that damn mirror and _help_ me!" she hissed. "Help Emily! I don't care if that's cheating, I need..."

The Outsider canted his head, blinked lazily.

"Please," she said, and her voice cracked.

He lifted a brow.

"Please, I can't let him take her, please help," she whispered, with all the weight of denial, of believing she could change something.

He lifted a hand, and in their reflection, he settled it onto her shoulder.

The world went a hundred shades of grey and blue and purple, everything blurring at the edges as her body stepped back from the mirror. She saw a woman facing her, with dark, hollow eyes and a serene, almost bored, expression.

Callista tried to speak; her throat didn't move.

"Shh," her body hushed, and the woman in the mirror held a finger to her lips.

_No_.

The woman's lips curled; Callista's curled without her permission. "This is the help I offer you." The sounds her throat produced were not her own, and the words vibrated and hummed in the air. It was as if Callista could see them shuddering in front of her and around her. Her head spun. She could see the penthouse broken into a hundred thousand constituent pieces, and in the same moment see the exact dimensions of the room she was in. Her body lurched forward, unexpectedly graceful but wholly beyond her control.

Callista watched, helpless, as the thing in her body dropped the knife it still held and settled her hand on the door instead. The door began to weep water. One quick jolt of the door and the chair braced against it slid in the trickles of ocean moving between it and the door and the floor. Callista's body stepped out into the penthouse proper.

At the end of the hallway, by Daud's office, stood Martin, Emily slung over his shoulder carelessly like a sack of potatoes. _Get her!_ she thought, frantically. _Make him stop! Make him put her down!_

The Outsider didn't reply, but she could see laughter buzzing in the space around her, space that was no longer filled with air, but with murky, dark water, and with a profound emptiness. She couldn't breathe; her lungs were full of the emptiness, the nothing, the drowning.

Martin's red coat looked like a blotch of shadow on his body. His eyes were wide. He had a gun pointed at her chest.

Callista's eyes closed, and when they opened again, her body was five feet to the right of where it had just been.

Martin's wide-eyed stare turned to a snarl with a wicked grin. She thought she heard him laugh. "You too, huh? He gave you his fucking Mark, did he?"

Callista felt her head shake, saw her hands lift. They were unmarked.

"I've seen his brand burned into his killer boys on their knees and on their backs," Martin spat. "What did he tell you? That it'd let you live?"

_He didn't tell me anything_, she thought, and if she'd had a brow of her own, it would have furrowed.

The Outsider's voice came from her throat. "Daud told her nothing, Teague Martin. This is not his bare imitation of my powers. This is far more _interesting_."

Martin's grip shifted on his handgun, and Callista wanted desperately to run. She wanted to be out, away, tucking Emily into some comfortable, safe bed until she woke again.

_Do something! Save her!_

The floor beneath them was coated in water that dripped up to the ceiling, _knulp knulp knulp_, and she started to shake inside of herself, to fight, to rail. The penthouse would fill with water. She could hear the pipes straining, creaking. Martin would fire his gun, and the bullet would catch her in the gut, and she-

She was seven feet to the left.

Martin would adjust, would shift his focus, would aim for her head or her heart or her belly or her knee (sixty percent chance of the first, twenty-two of the second, thirteen of the third, five of the last, for a rough estimate), and this time when he fired-

She was halfway across the room. She could hear the report of his gun. A bullet lodged in the kitchen splash guard. Emily shuddered over his shoulder. She was drugged. She would wake up in three hours, crying out for Callista, for Corvo, for anybody, because Martin had come into her room and found her peering under her bed for Callista, and Emily had wanted to scream but Martin had smiled and said sweet words.

The scene played out in brilliant detail, overlaying the present. Callista couldn't shut it out.

_Emily had asked for her._

Martin had told her that Callista wouldn't be there anymore. He had apologized. He had said that Callista had run again. That she'd never be coming back.

And when Emily had told him no, that Callista _would_ be back, when she had run at the High Overseer and tried to get past him, Martin had grabbed her by her hair and covered her face and had forced a needle into her neck. (This wasn't the way he'd wanted to do it, but he'd been prepared for it. He'd had Sokolov and Piero make the drug in the barrel of the needle.) She had fought him. He had pulled out a clump of her hair. Her head had hit the doorframe, and Callista had missed the sound of it. Martin had nearly torn a gash in her throat and let her bleed out, all because he had overestimated Emily Kaldwin's self-control and fury.

_I don't want to know this_.

Martin would let Emily fall to the ground in every possible future (distantly she heard the thud, a sack of potatoes indeed, and Emily would have bruises and nightmares and nobody to turn to, and Callista should never have hid for her own benefit, never, never - if she had hid in the kitchen, she would have stood up to see Martin coming, and he would have had to shoot her in the head. Emily would have come flying down the stairs. She would have seen Callista dead on the floor. She would have broken) and he would advance and he would chase her down until he could end her life himself because she was nothing but a nuisance, a mistake, a liability. He'd underestimated her obsession with endurance. He hadn't realized that in all the ways that made a person dangerous, she was already dead and still walking despite it.

There were not five Overseers in the lobby, but there were five trucks of them on their way, and Martin would exit a hero in every possible future. The difference was whether he'd have Callista's body to show to them, or just an unconscious little girl.

Her eyes blinked, and she was at the window, her back to it. Martin lifted his gun. He would fire, three shots, and her outline would shudder and time would slow until she could sidestep them all.

The glass splintered, spiderweb cracks breaking the walls that hemmed her in.

Callista's lips curled, and then she turned. She had five seconds before Martin caught his breath and took his aim carefully. Her fists smashed the glass that should have been shatterproof, but what was shatterproofing to an old god?

The glass wasn't there.

The wind caught her skin and hair and suddenly there was only air, only nothing, and while the rain fell up, she only fell down.

_But Emily-_

Her mouth opened and she swallowed the wind and the rain. She choked on it. The Outsider said, "There are only two outcomes here, Callista Curnow. You die, or you live. In either one, Emily is not saved. But in this outcome, you get another chance."

_But Emily_-

"This is your choice. Die, or live."

The ground rose to meet her. She couldn't make a single finger move. Her eyes were still black pits in her skull, and her thoughts poured out of them, were sucked into them, devoured.

"You want to live," the Outsider said.

Her body jerked to the left and her momentum translated from downward plummet to sideways dash, and soon her legs skipped across the ground and she went rolling, rolling across the pavement, dirt and rocks and trash digging into her knees and hands and shoulders. Her vision shuddered. She was up in the air again; she was down an alley. Her body shook and trembled.

Her feet touched the earth.

She blinked, and she saw color again.

And then she bent double and heaved, seawater erupting from her stomach and lungs and throat, pouring from her until she was empty and spent and confused. She slumped into the puddle around her. She breathed.

* * *

Time passed. Emily was gone. She crawled in fits and starts away from the tidepool she had created, with its bile and brine, with the flashing shadows of what she didn't want to think of as little fish and limp kelp. She made it down the alleyway and around a corner, then into another narrow passage where she tucked herself behind a dumpster.

Distantly, she could hear the rumbling of trucks. Men shouted. She couldn't parse the words; everything felt out of order. When the Outsider had walked in her skin, time had run backwards, forwards, collapsed in on itself then blossomed back out. She had known so many futures, paired with every choice that had led to that given moment, and even at the time she could only hold on to a few of them. Now they disintegrated at her touch.

Emily was gone.

She was alive.

That was her choice.

Shaking and weak, she bowed her head to her knees and focused on her breathing. Had she breathed when the Outsider rode along her spine? Or had she existed in a state of simultaneous fullness and emptiness? She couldn't remember. She had splinters of glass embedded in her arms, and her throat was raw. Her eyes throbbed.

Was this what Piero experienced? No- when the Outsider had left _him_, he had been just a man again, not a heaving wretch.

Emily was gone.

She was alive.

Havelock's men had Geoff.

Daud was... where?

She slumped sideways against the dumpster. He would come back to find her, and the Overseers would take him, if he wasn't dead already. They'd thought they would be clever, quick, ready when the levees failed, but Martin had been faster. Named High Overseer, he had taken her out to dinner to plan his next move, while Corvo was already headed for Burrows with a knife in hand. They'd never stood a chance.

Exhausted, she could still feel a pang of grief, of horror, of raging anger. They'd been so _close_!

Then the feelings faded into a dull roar.

A memory not her own flashed through her thoughts: Daud, descending from the tower in shuddering shadows, searching for her, turning down an alley. Her alley? She stirred. He'd be so focused on her that he wouldn't see the Overseer catch sight of him, wouldn't see the leveling of his rifle, wouldn't-

The memory dripped away through her fingers. She couldn't hold it. But she remembered the sun sliding towards the horizon, and knew it wouldn't happen immediately.

She stood up. That was the first difference. She'd been sitting in those flakes of memory. She stood up, and she braced herself against the wall and hobbled around the dumpster. There was a chance, however small, that the same Overseer was already posted at the alley exit, but she risked it. She stumbled forward, then ducked around the corner and, plastering herself up against abandoned building, made her way around its architecture. She headed in the direction of the tower. There was a loading bay in a building across the street, devoid of life. She took a deep breath, and leapt across the road.

Her legs burned and protested as she sprinted, and she nearly collapsed as she got behind cover, but she made it undetected. No alarms went up. She sank to the ground against a cement embankment, panting for breath. Where would Daud come from? She closed her eyes and tried to sort through the tangle of thoughts that made her squirm and twist away. She wasn't supposed to follow those fractals of knowledge, of spiraling, branching possibility, and most were blank holes when she tried.

_From the tower_. He wouldn't circle around to come at her from a safer direction. Swallowing down another roil of nausea, she pushed herself to her feet again and peered over the embankment.

A shadow moved. She caught her breath.

As she watched, Daud detached himself from the darkness. He stepped out from it as if shrugging out of a coat, then dropped to a crouch, scanning the roads. She held her breath as he turned. Soon- soon-

His eyes met her. She held up a shaking hand, unable to fully extend her fingers from her fear.

He was too far away for her to make out his expression, but he jerked into action, head turning this way and that as he crossed the space between them in carefully measured and timed jolts and creeps. He moved from cover to cover; twice she lost sight of him. And then his gloved hand settled onto the embankment and he hopped over it, landing beside her with his chest heaving and his eyes wide.

He'd lost his suit jacket somewhere along the way, and his tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and slashed at the sleeve. Her brow furrowed. It was hard to make out against the dark cotton, but as he moved she saw a flash of red.

"You're hurt," she said, voice hoarse and thin. She frowned and reached out for him.

He shrugged off her touch. "Not badly," he said. "Are you okay? I heard them saying- the window on the nineteenth floor is blown out." He searched her face, then scanned down her body. His gaze landed on the glass in her skin, and he swore, reaching for her. "How did you- I thought I'd find your body-"

"I'm fine," she said, looking past him towards the street beyond. "We should move. Shouldn't we move?"

"Once I'm sure you're okay," he said. "Any other injuries? Your voice-"

"I threw up."

He wiggled one of the larger pieces of glass, and the sharp jolt of pain cut through the fog of lingering possibilities. She hissed and pulled away, closing her eyes and curling in on herself. Every time she had seen Martin shooting her, she had felt the blossom of agony for a split second, until the possibility had been rewritten. Her nerves were frayed. Her mind was spinning. She gasped for breath.

Daud caught her as she slid down the wall.

"It is deep?" he asked, and she thought only _yes, yes, deep in the ocean, down below everything, in the center of nothing_.

She must have said it out loud, because Daud went very still. "Callista?" he asked.

She opened her eyes; the world was in full color. She took a deep breath. "The Outsider," she said.

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"The Outsider walked in my skin. I asked him to get me out and to save Emily, when Martin came, but all he did was save- me." She curled up in Daud's shadow. "I saw a hundred thousand futures and in some of them I lived and in some of them I died, but I _never saved Emily_, and he wouldn't change any of it." She put her hand to her mouth. Her blood didn't taste like salt water, and that was good.

Daud's jaw worked. He stared at her. And then he took her hand in his and pulled it away from her face, went back to nudging glass from her skin. "The Outsider's not real," he rumbled.

"I saw him," she said. "Daud-"

"It's just an old fear of the unknown. People's need for something beyond them that didn't care about restraint or progress, only chaos." He didn't look up at her. "It's fear. It's lack of control. You don't need it to excuse what you're going through."

For the briefest moment, she doubted herself. She saw herself talking to nothing, seeing only herself in mirrors and glass. And then she remembered water dripping up to the ceiling, and she let out a high-pitched cry and scrabbled for a hold on his gloves.

He tried to pull away. "Callista-"

"Shut up!" she said. "Stop lying. You're not supposed to lie to me!" She got her fingers beneath the leather covering his right hand, and she tugged it off savagely.

His hand was broad, with scars and wiry hair at his wrist. It was unmarked.

She stared at it.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.

The last month had been a living nightmare. She'd been taken from her life, thrown into a conspiracy, threatened with pain and death and the loss of her uncle, dragged along to help kidnap a woman and send her far away from her family. She'd seen a building explode and go down in flames. She'd seen a woman lose her arm.

Perhaps the hollow-eyed man in the mirror had been nothing more than the manifestation of her terror. _It's a lack of control_. Any girl, sufficiently traumatized, could look at the murderer of her mother and call him unnatural, inhuman, monstrous.

_But the glass shattered and I chose to live, and I fell nineteen stories and I'm still alive_, she thought, weakly, as the glove slipped from her fingers.

Daud had dropped his gaze. He gathered up his glove and tucked it into his belt, then carefully worked his bare fingers along each small cut. The pads of his fingers were soft from their constant protection, and they were warm. Bits of glass tinkled against the cement beneath them. She forced her thoughts into chronological order, before their wild spinning drove her any further from herself than she already was.

Carefully, she reached for his other hand.

He pulled it back. "Relax, Callista," he said. "I'll get you out of here as soon as we take care of the glass. Sit still."

She didn't relent. She caught his left hand in hers and pulled it close. She watched his face as she worked the leather down. His fingers clenched into a tight fist; she kept working. His expression grew guarded, tense. His free hand reached as if to stop her.

And then he went slack, and she pulled the glove away, and there was the Outsider's mark, real and stark against his flesh. She touched it.

It pulsed beneath her fingers.

"Don't lie to me," she said.

"It's not-" he tried, then growled and pulled away. She let him. He tugged his gloves back on. "It's not exactly something I'm proud of," he said, pushing himself up to look over an embankment. He dropped back down with a curse. "Overseers," he said, "shifting the patrol this way, it looks like. We have to move. Can you walk?"

His tone was suddenly sharp, and all his care over her injuries seemed to evaporate. She levered herself onto her feet, remaining crouched below the top of the wall. "Mostly," she said. "Where are we-"

"Quiet," he said. "Later."

She complied.

He took another quick look, then held out his hand to her. She took it, hesitantly. He drew her close and looped an arm around her waist. "Hold onto me," he said, "and don't let go. And don't look down."

She had just enough time to fit herself to him before her blood roared in her ears and the world flashed by between blinks of her eyes. One moment, they were crouched in a loading bay, and then they were standing in the mouth of the alley where she'd hidden. Another blink and they were on an old fire escape, two stories up. She flattened herself against him, wrapping both arms around him. He kept one arm around her shoulders, hand cradling the back of her head. The other he had extended as if to guide them.

A few more shuddering jumps and they were on the roof of a building five blocks away. She could feel Daud shaking as he loosened his grip. He backed away, then turned, looking down at the streets below. His hand went to his injured arm.

"Daud, are you- alright?" she asked, coming to peer over the edge with him. Her breath caught. Floodlights were being set up in the streets outside of the tower. She could see police squad cars down there, and Abbey trucks. Martin was nowhere to be seen, but the streets were crawling in an ever-expanding radius.

"Martin's conspiracy nearly killed Corvo," Daud said after a moment, glancing sideways at her. "And I almost couldn't get Geoff out. He's safe, don't worry. I-"

"Corvo?"

His grip shifted on his arm. "Yes. I ran into him when your uncle and I were getting out of the area. He was half-dead in an alley. Poison, I think. He lunged at me and nearly got a knife in my neck before Geoff took him down."

She took a deep breath. "Where is he now? Does he know..."

"That Martin has Emily? No. I haven't told him." He sighed, grimacing. "He's with Geoff at my safehouse. He _does_ know we're playing on the same side now. Or I told him so, anyway. We'll see if he slits my throat when we get back. My plan is to patch him up and send him out with the correct information, and then be done with all of this."

Callista looked back down into the streets, and remembered the thud of Emily's small body hitting the floor. "I'm going to help him."

"_What_?" he hissed.

She didn't look at him. "I realized something, in there. When Martin came for Emily. I'm not- _that_ selfish."

"Sure you are." He backed away from the edge of the roof and headed for the other side of the building, facing the river.

She followed. "I would've died trying to save her."

Daud didn't respond.

"I'm going to help Corvo. But if you want out, you should go," she said, voice soft but firm.

He leaned over the edge, then narrowed his eyes, peering out to the nearest bridge.

She waited for him to step back, then reached out and touched his uninjured shoulder. "Daud-"

"If he doesn't kill me for suggesting it, I'll help, too. You said Martin has her?" he said, not looking at her.

"... Yes. I don't know where he's taking her, though."

"And Martin- does he know about how you escaped?"

She grimaced. "The Outsider had a chat with him."

A rough snort of laughter slipped from his chest. "What did he do?"

"Laughed. Then tried to shoot me," she said. "Emily was drugged, she didn't see it. Small mercies, I guess."

He leaned over the edge again. "Small mercies," he agreed, then frowned. "I can make it a good part of the way to the bridge along rooftops, but I'll need to rest every few minutes. Still, we'll make better time than if we were on foot."

"What about your car?"

"Ditched about half a mile away. But Martin will have a BOLO out on it in half an hour, if he doesn't already. He knows I'm out of the tower. That's probably why he chose that moment to go get Emily."

"And I was in your room," she said, with a grimace. "That's... he probably saw it on the cameras. Knew Emily would be alone."

He turned. "You left her _alone_?"

"She wanted to play hide-and-seek," Callista said, rubbing at her arms. It was cold on the rooftop, though the sun did give some watery warmth when the wind didn't steal it away. Her cuts were scabbing over quickly. Her legs felt better, too, as did her stomach. She was sore and tired and worn down - but she was safe.

And ashamed.

She ducked her head. "I played with her for hours. And then I needed a break, so I hid somewhere she'd never look."

"My room," he said, softly.

"And then Martin came in and barricaded the door, and demanded that I turn myself in, and I needed- help."

"So you called on the Outsider. What did you do, use my bed as an altar?" His voice caught and twisted on the words, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed and stalked along the edge of the roof, looking for a way out.

"No. I've- seen him before, in mirrors. And in glass reflections. And I saw him in your mirror."

Daud froze. "You've _seen_ him before?"

Callista nodded. "And... spoken with him. Piero Joplin-"

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Right. Of course. Dr. Joplin. I _thought_..." His hands curled into fists. "Well, at least I know, now. How much do you understand?"

"Of what?"

He held up his left hand.

"Some," she said. "The Outsider told me he'd never give me his Mark, that it only went to people who could change the... flow of fate."

"Something like that," Daud said.

"And that you can't do that anymore."

"Not as much. He's very frustrated with that. I'm _fine_ with it," he spat, then turned and held out his hand. "Come on, let's move."

"You keep changing the subject."

He glared. "You keep trying to talk about heretical mysteries when we should be running for our lives." He motioned for her to come closer. "We'll talk when we're safe."

"Where are we going?"

"... Your apartment, first. We should be able to get to it before Martin thinks to send people there, if we move quickly."

She stepped into the circle of his arm, and wrapped her own arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "We don't have to go there," she said.

"You don't want pictures of your family? Mementos? If we don't go now, you might never get another chance," he said, and his voice was a gentle murmur. His arm tightened around her.

She closed her eyes. "If you think we have time," she said, when inside she could only think about how much she would lose if those photos of her and her brother were burned, if the jar of rocks they'd collected as children were smashed on the floor.

Blood roared in her ears. The world tumbled.

She felt them change altitude, dropping and rising between window sills and rooftops and fire escapes. Once, they even touched down in an alley for just a second. And then they were up and moving again. They must have passed another ten or twelve blocks like that.

And then Daud stumbled as they touched down on a balcony, and their momentum crashed them into the door. It banged open and she heard a woman scream as they fell to the floor, a tangle of limbs.

Daud was panting for breath. Callista lifted her head, apologies on her lips.

Ms. Brooklaine stared back at her.

A shot of movement out of the corner of her eye made her jerk up, only to be met with Cecelia, red-headed and panicked, faltering with a heavy book of Strictures raised above her head, ready to strike them both.

"... Miss Curnow?" Cecelia asked, gasping for breath herself. "... Mr. Daud?" The book, which had dropped slightly, went up again. "Don't move. Don't either of you move, or I'll... I'll..."

"They came in through the deck, you idiot," Ms. Brooklaine said, from where she was stretched out on the couch. "And when have you ever seen Mr. Daud on the floor? They're not here to kill us."

"Well, you didn't think Admiral Havelock was, either! And look where that's got us!"

Daud stood and offered his hand to Callista, but she pushed herself up on his own. He was weak and unsteady.

So was Ms. Brooklaine. Her face had the same grey pallor that Lydia Boyle's face had had. Standing, Callista could see the spiral of bandages around her belly, along with the blood seeping through.

Callista looked up, aghast.

Brooklaine smiled grimly. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"No, she's only going to go septic and die," Cecelia said, putting down the book at last and moving to Brooklaine's side, eyes never leaving them. She settled a protective hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Samuel said he'd have an ambulance come for us, but I don't know if I trust him. Or the medics. Not sure I trust _anybody_ anymore."

"You always knew you were a part of a conspiracy," Daud said, limping to the fridge. He opened it; no light came on. The smell of rotting food wafted out and he shut it again, scowling. "Do you have anything to eat? Clean water?"

"A little. Enough. I kept this place stocked so I'd have a place to go... if things went wrong. I mean, we did always know things might go wrong. I just never thought..."

"That it'd end with people getting hurt," Callista finished, sinking down into a chair.

"Not with _us_ getting hurt," Cecelia said, and reached for Brooklaine's hand. She twined their fingers together.

"So you saw Samuel?" Daud asked, opening up cabinets.

"Back off, that's ours," Cecelia said. "And yeah. Saw him after he got back from dumping Corvo's body. He said I should be ready to run. I thought maybe he meant Corvo wasn't dead, that he'd come back with a vengeance, looking for Miss Emily."

Brooklaine snorted. "Now there would've been a fine sight. He'd have every right, too. But it was Havelock. Said we knew too much. Said Martin sent his apologies." She shook her head. "They didn't call for Cecelia. Forgot her like always. And Wallace is out with Pendleton, they haven't been by the club in days. So it was just me and some of the other staff who knew about the camera set-up, and the apartment."

Callista frowned. "And Dr. Joplin?"

"Haven't seen him since last night. Martin had him and Sokolov taken somewhere. Maybe they were the first round."

"No," Daud said, coming back to where Callista sat. "My bet is he has them locked up somewhere working on a cure for the plague. So he can reveal it soon, making him even more of a hero. Emily Kaldwin's finally been found - and nobody knows he's had her all this time except his fellow conspirators who have everything to lose by turning on him, plus a few other people who ought to be dead and have bounties on their heads by now." He glanced to Callista. "Emily's been found, the plague will be cured, and maybe he'll even find a way to stop the riots. He'll be a hero."

"Yeah, a hero without an eye on the throne. Last I heard, he's going to offer it to the admiral," Brooklaine said, then grimaced in pain. Cecelia squeezed her hand, then went to dig in a first aid kit.

"_I _always thought it'd be Pendleton," Cecelia said. "Has the right background."

"To be Emperor, I guess, but anybody can be Regent. Burrows was Regent," Brooklaine said. "Havelock has the military's support, and Pendleton's supposed to get the nobles' votes, or at least enough of them, and then everybody will be happy."

Daud frowned. "And Martin really trusts Havelock that much?"

But Brooklaine responded with a groan of pain, and Cecelia didn't respond at all, instead hurrying to check on the bullet wound in the other woman's gut. Callista looked away as she pulled up the dressing.

"We should get out of here," Daud murmured.

"You need rest," she said.

"I'll pace myself. And when we get close to your apartment, I'll let you take care of getting your stuff together while I... find a new car."

She looked up at him.

He shrugged. "A new car will be less identifiable, faster, and by then I'll probably need it."

"Checkpoints," she said.

"We only need to cross one between your place and my safehouse. I'll figure it out when we get there." He held out his hand.

"What about them?" Callista asked.

"If Samuel said he sent the medics, he sent the medics. He's a good man. And we can't carry them both." He shook his head. "This isn't our problem. Selfish creatures, Callista."

She looked over to the couch, where Cecelia was pressing a fervent kiss to her patient's forehead, and swallowed. Emily, she couldn't abandon. But these two- yes, she was selfish enough to leave them.

She took Daud's hand.

The world fell away.

* * *

Their luck held; by the time they had crossed the Wrenhaven and made their way to Callista's neighborhood, there was still no sign of Overseer trucks or patrol cars. All the city's focus seemed to be on Rudshore or on Dunwall Tower. The news was still blaring across the city: Hiram Burrows was dead, as well as half his household staff, all brutally slain in the middle of the night.

Callista looked around the living room of her apartment. It was alien, even though everything was exactly as she'd left it a month ago. There was dust and the air was stale, but it was untouched. There was a notice on her door, of pending eviction for failure to pay rent, and in a few days the room would be emptied and relet, if the Overseers didn't take it apart first. For now, though, it was a space out of time.

Daud was somewhere below, readying their getaway vehicle. She gathered photos from her fridge and stuffed them in an album she pulled from a shelf, then tucked it into her bag. She sorted through all the mementos of her family; there weren't many. Years ago, when she'd left Geoff's house to get her associate's degree at the Dunwall city college, she had made herself pare down her collection. It had been horrific. Geoff likely still kept some of the photos and books she'd abandoned in his attic, but here in her room, there was only an album, a few loose pictures, a single diary, and her brother's stones.

Those she sorted through for the best, the ones he'd adored, and tucked only those pieces away into her bag.

She was crouched in front of her bookshelves when she heard a tap at her window. Her body tensed even though she knew she'd only see Daud when she turned. The Overseers wouldn't have knocked. She turned; he was trying to look nonchalant, standing out on her fire escape.

How many times had he stood there before? Her throat went dry. How many times had he stood within these walls? She hesitated a moment before standing and opening the window.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

She considered for a moment, then stepped back and waved him in.

He climbed through the window and tossed a handheld radio onto her bed. It chattered quiet snippets of conversation; she heard _Curnow_ mixed in with _heir_ and _demolition_. "Overseers are on patrol," he said. "I thought we might benefit from knowing where they were. No word of them coming this way yet, though."

"Demolition?" she asked.

"The tower. They're bringing it down once they finish combing it for evidence - though I think that might take a surprisingly short time. They're claiming structural integrity on the airwaves, but I'd lay odds it's two things."

"Martin not wanting them to know he was involved, and...?"

"Fear of the Outsider," Daud said with a snort. "They wrote it out of the doctrines decades ago, after centuries of forgetting about it. But the fear's still there, in all of them." His left hand flexed at his side.

And then he was crossing the room to her, and he caught her face in both of his hands, and kissed her, hard.

She was kissing back before he'd taken a breath, and she wrapped her arms around him. He hissed when her arm bumped his wound, drawing away from her.

"I-" she tried, but he shook his head, leaned back in and kissed at the corner of her mouth.

"You're alive," he whispered, and she shuddered at how thick and raw he sounded. "I thought- _fuck_-" he snarled, and buried his face against her throat, head bowed as he tried to breathe.

Behind them, the Overseer radio clicked and squealed. Callista's hands hovered uncertainly over Daud's back.

"If you'd died," he murmured, and then fell silent.

_If I'd died, you would've been alone. If you'd died, I would have..._

Her breath caught, and this time, it was her kissing him, clinging to him. His arms tightened around her. He lifted his head and she caught his lower lip between hers, slid her tongue along it, suckled on it until she felt like she could pull the fear out of him.

"I was afraid," she whispered, pulling back for just a second, and a strangled, pained sound came from Daud's throat. He cupped her face in his hands again, then slid his arms around her, as if unsure of how to hold her, where to touch her. "I was so tired," she went on, "and confused, and frightened, but I got out, I got out, and I found you- if I hadn't moved to find you, you would have-"

He kissed her throat and her cheeks and her mouth.

"I saw a future where you found me in an alley," she breathed as she tilted her head back and he nuzzled against her throat, "and you came to me, and an Overseer saw us and shot you through the back. I got away in that future. But it wasn't good enough, and I couldn't let it happen, and-"

"Callista," he rumbled against her throat, and her mind went blessedly still.

He lifted his head and stroked her hair, then pulled her in for another kiss. "Callista," he said again, and ran his hands along her sides, mapping the length of her. His kiss was sweet and light.

She dove into it, groaning his name in return, because they were _alive_.

He dragged her against him, hard, and matched her need and fervor with his own. While her body remembered what it had been like for him to carry her up to the penthouse, for him to drag her close and dip her down until all her weight was in his arms, his seemed to remember what it had been like to hold her on a rooftop, to dance with her to the heavy beat of Wolfhound's music. His touch was electric as he explored her.

They fell onto the bed, both wincing and arching and squirming as their cuts and bruises met weight and rough sheets. Daud's stubble burned as he left her mouth to press a line of searing kisses down her throat, suckling and tonguing at her pulse. She whined and curved into him, hooking a leg over his hip and tangling one hand in his hair. His body went rigid, muscles tightly coiled, and his gloved hands dragged over her skin and dress with unrelenting force, needing to touch and explore and prove that she was alive. She reached for one of his hands, tugged at the leather. He resisted for only a moment, until she curled and caught the shell of his ear between her lips, and dragged his hips against hers with a jerk of her leg.

She tossed the leather aside. His Mark pulsed as his hand settled on her skin again, as it caught the hem of her dress and slid it up.

"The nearest station," he groaned against her skin, "is a five minute drive away. That means- it means we'll have at least seven minutes, probably more like ten, from when any scrambling order is given."

She turned her head to look over at the radio, laughing helplessly. "Maybe there's a better place-"

"What, like a stolen car in the middle of the day?" he growled, sliding her skirt up over her hips. She gasped at the cool air on her thighs, followed immediately by his touch, one hand still covered in leather, the other eagerly drinking up the texture of her skin.

"G-good point," she murmured, head tilting back. His tongue circled the hollow of her throat, and she fisted her hands, one in the bedsheets and one in his hair. He could tear her throat out, or close his fingers around it and press the life from her.

He didn't. Her Mr. Wolf nibbled at her pulse but came back to her mouth, dragged his tongue along her lips, plundered her breath and made her gasp and groan and mumble his name as he reached between her legs. She reached for his belt and was rewarded with a panting curse. He dropped his head, mouthing at her breast through the fabric of her dress, and she rocked her hips against his leg, fumbled with his buckle.

She had it half undone when he reached down and grabbed her hands, pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. With a few quick, determined motions of his other hand, he had his belt open and his fly undone. She pulled against his hold; his marked hand tightened on her, and he leaned down to kiss her again. His lips were thin and dry and fumbling, as if he hadn't kissed in half a lifetime, but at some point in his life he'd learned how to suckle on a lower lip, bring the blood to just below the surface, tease it until its owner groaned and squirmed and had to keep herself from begging. His other hand pushed her underwear aside, and she felt one leather-clad finger slip against her. The stitching on his gloves and the catch and drag of the leather, before it grew slippery from her, made her mind go blank.

He worked at her, the knuckle of his thumb brushing circles around her clit, his fingers exploring, nudging at her opening, delving inside in quick, sliding motions. She turned her head to the side and pressed her cheek into the mattress, biting her lip to keep from moaning or babbling out a hundred thousand half-formed thoughts. What would it have been like if Esma Boyle had wanted a less metaphorical demonstration of their chemistry? What would it have been like to dance with him in Martin's club the night she stumbled in footsore and world-weary, to have ground up against him instead of simply trying to blend in? He was all coiled, intensely-focused need, and he poured that desire out into her with every thrust of his hand, every nip of his teeth, every path his tongue took.

Her legs trembled as she hooked them around his hips again, trying to draw him closer. Through her half-lidded eyes, she could see his cock straining against his boxers, the swollen head of it peeking out from under the waistband. He lifted his head at another tug of her legs. His pupils were blown wide and he looked at her with desperate hunger.

She managed a shy smile, and when she licked her lips in invitation, he groaned and bowed his head to her breast, shoulders shaking.

"Do you have any idea," he mumbled, "how hard it was to not look like a _complete_ idiot when you came downstairs wearing the blue dress I got you?"

Her laugh surprised her. "Which one?"

"Both. Either. I just-" He laughed, too, breathy and uneven. "And seeing you go to dinner with Martin dressed like this-"

"Maybe you should stop buying my clothes," she said, grinning through her flush and shuddering need, "if it's a problem." She couldn't help canting her hips and grinding against his hand.

He groaned again, and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "Never."

And then he finally, finally took his hand away and pulled himself free of his boxers. She got a half-second glimpse of the straining length of him, and then he was hauling her hips to the edge of his bed, and hiking one of her legs up. The strain of the position made her head spin, even before his cock nudged at her entrance, then slid in, in fits and starts, until she was full of him.

Shaking, he caught the tip of his gloved finger in his teeth and tugged, then cast the leather away. His other hand left her wrists, instead curling around her ankle. She propped her elbows under her and sat up. He shifted inside of her, and she bit her lip and tried to breathe around it.

He leaned forward, opening her further still. His first thrust was shallow, experimental, but it made her shudder and nearly lose her balance. He leaned close enough to kiss her, lightly, and thrust again, driving his hips against the soft flesh of her thighs and rear. She gave up on sitting and fell back, and with a wolf's grin, Daud thrust a third time, and found a rhythm.

It was unrelenting, savage. Whatever gentleness she'd seen in him had been an illusion; he moved in fast and furious staccato bursts, marking her with a hand digging into her hip, leaving a rose pattern of bruises. She felt open, exposed, skirt rucked up around her waist, dress damp over her chest where he had mouthed, neckline tugged down to show the top of her bra. Her fingers clutched at the bedsheets, then reached out as if she could take hold of Daud's bared throat, run her thumb against his pulse.

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, then sucked one into his mouth as he bore down on her. His teeth trailed against the underside of it, and she bucked against him, straining to touch him, to feel him.

Abruptly, he pulled away. He let go of her leg and she curled her knee to her chest, unsure. His lips left her finger. She reached out for him, and he hauled her up, turned her around and dragged her against his chest.

"Knee on the mattress," he purred in her ear, and his voice, gravel-rough and sharp, dug into her mind and made her shake. His hands were trembling as they settled on her hips. She complied, bracing her right knee on the bed.

He looped an arm around her waist and slipped his hand between her legs, spreading her open as he shoved back into her.

She reached back and gripped his waist, clutching at his shirt as he found a new rhythm, thrusting up into her. He kept her tight against his chest, lips fastened on the join between her neck and shoulder. She rose on tiptoe as his fingers worked her clit, as his other hand found her breast and kneaded it through her dress. She arched, head falling back onto his shoulder, and she kissed his jawline open-mouthed.

The radio crackled to life. Daud didn't falter, only pushing her forward and bending her over the bed, following her down so he could hear better.

"... Rudshore clear... no sign of Curnow except for several unidentified blood stains and bits of broken glass... expand search to known bases... address is..."

"Seven minutes," Daud breathed in her ear, and she moaned, tilting her hips. He dug his fingers into her hips and bowed his head, nipping at the back of her neck.

That was all it took; the flare of panic, of knowing they were being hunted, followed by Daud's intense, restrained savagery, and she was lost, body tensing and curving under his thrusts, shaking apart until it was all she could do to keep her hips in the air while she pressed her face and chest to the bed and gasped.

He settled a hand on the small of her back and pounded into her through her writhing, until he drove in deep and stayed there, shuddering and breathing her name.

He pulled away not half a minute later, wiping them down with her sheets. She reached back and tugged her dress down, twitching her underwear back into place, then stumbled to her feet. He caught her and kissed the corner of her mouth, then leaned past her to grab the radio. He pressed it into her hands, then dragged the sheets off her bed and bundled the whole mess into her arms.

"Don't want them knowing we were just here," he said when she stared at him. "I'd burn it, but I think that'd attract more attention. We'll toss it when we're a few miles away."

"Right," she said.

He looked around as he rebuckled his belt and tucked his gloves into his pockets. His face was still flushed, and the tip of his ear was brilliant crimson where she'd sucked at it. She almost raised a hand to her own throat, which she knew must be a map of red and purple, before the radio crackled to life in her hand again, muffled beneath the sheets.

"Let's get moving," she said.

He nodded, then scooped up the bag she'd abandoned earlier. "This is what you're taking?"

"I... yes. I was thinking of taking some books-"

"Which books? Pick two."

"I don't know. Neither. Let's-"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "Do any of your books have messages to you from family members?"

Callista's heart shivered in her chest. "... Yes. _A Gaffer's Tale_, volume one. And the book on whale vivisection."

He scanned the bookshelves. Finding the volumes, he snatched them and stuffed them into the bag, then slung it over his shoulder and climbed out the window.

She looked back into the rest of her apartment.

_This is it_?

For a split second, she imagined what would have happened if they hadn't fallen onto the bed; would she have gotten more of a chance to say goodbye? To feel at peace?

_No_, she told herself. _This is always all there is. The longer you try to dwell, the less peace you ever find_.

She thought of how long Geoff had held onto the ashes of their family.

And then she stepped out onto the fire escape and closed the window behind her. Down below, sirens roared in the streets.

"Let's go," she said.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14**_

The safehouse was a ten minute drive in theory, and a forty-five minute journey in practice. They abandoned the car a good half-mile from the checkpoint, and went on foot to where the sparking gates had been erected. There hadn't even been a gatehouse there three weeks ago.

Daud had looped an arm around her and dragged her close, and it took an exercise of will not to tilt her head up for a kiss. Instead, she clung to him as the world shuddered and they arrived, stumbling, on the roof of one of the buildings that made up the makeshift wall.

"The other streets," he said as he caught his breath, "have been blocked completely. When the riots are over, whoever's in charge is going to have a good time trying to get traffic circulation back."

Callista looked over the edge of the roof, at the loitering police officers. There was a single Overseer with them. "If we succeed," she said, "who's that going to be, anyway? Emily's too young to rule on her own."

"If Corvo even lets her rule," Daud said, and she looked back to see him inspecting his wound. It had reopened back in her apartment. Daud had ripped a strip of fabric from the sheets before they left them in a dumpster a few miles back, and while it had soaked through, it was now growing brown and crusted.

"You think he'll just take her and run? Like Martin thought he would?"

"It's a possibility. Corvo doesn't have the right allies anymore. If he'll let us, we'll help get Emily back, but we're not politicians. We don't command armies. We're political shrapnel, not a political powerhouse."

Callista grimaced and made her way back over to him. "He'll have Geoff."

"A disgraced police officer."

"It could be enough. Geoff has connections."

He shook his head. "It's not our business, Callista. Come on." He held out his hand. She took it. They blinked out of existence and reappeared down below, on the streets beyond the checkpoint.

They kept to the roads and alleys from then on. Daud's endurance seemed to be at his limit. His brow was beaded with sweat and his gait was slightly uneven - and slightly audible. Callista kept close to him.

They entered a thicket of ramshackle apartment buildings. The sidewalks disappeared. The pavement grew cracked. They entered a neighborhood forgotten by the government and passed boarded-up buildings with Xs spraypainted over the doors.

"Plague," Daud said. "It showed up first in the poorer districts. Do you think that's a coincidence?"

She answered him with a snort, as her own body began to sag with exhaustion. Her small cuts had begun to itch, and her mind spun in dull circles. When they began to climb a fire escape, she had to take breaks at each level.

Finally, they reached the second-to-top floor of an apartment building, and Daud moved aside a board to open a gap in the window. He stepped through first, then held it open for her. She followed, hopping awkwardly on one foot as she pulled the other through after her.

"Callista!"

She looked up to see Geoff standing a few feet away, in the dingy kitchen space, his chair knocked over and a gun in his hand. It was pointed at the floor, now, but she could imagine it trained on Daud, on the window the moment the board moved.

He was _alive_. He was skinny and his face was drawn, his eyes a bit wild, but he was _alive_. He set his gun down on the table and crossed the space between them, gathering her up in his arms. "Callista-" he murmured into her hair as he squeezed her tight. Her arms went around him in turn, and she let her eyes close. She took a shuddering breath.

"Hi, Uncle," she said.

Geoff was alive, and had been this whole time.

She felt tears burning in her eyes before she felt the emotions that accompanied them. She'd gotten very good, in the last twenty-odd years of her life, at moving on from death. It was like ripping away a bandaid - excruciating for a second, and then she would accept the pain, the hole that a death left in the fabric of her world, and keep moving. She'd felt that agony already, and she'd moved on from there. Martin telling her Geoff was alive had worried at the cut, and Daud's promises of keeping Geoff safe had soothed it again, but they'd all been bare tickles compared to the crash of horror that she'd felt at that payphone. To feel them would have been to revive herself, to patch his hole back up and open herself to further torture.

Now Geoff was alive, warm, shaking, and she could only feel something akin to acid in her veins, whole-body aches that came pumping from her heart. There was no relief, only a shuddering rising from the grave of her grief.

Her knees gave out, and strong, enduring Callista was replaced by a little girl who had just found out that maybe her dad wasn't going to die, after all. Maybe the doctors had been wrong. She clutched at Geoff's sleeves even as he lowered them both to the ground, drew her into his lap. He tried his best to laugh and pat her back and say, "Hey- hey now- it was just a prolonged overnight trip, yeah?" like he had when she was a fourteen-year-old given over to his guardianship because she had nobody left, and he'd gone on a three-day stakeout and come home to find her a crying mess. She'd hated doors and windows, and had covered them with sheets so that nothing else could come in or go out.

He'd made arrangements after that to never be away more than a night at a time, until a few years had passed and she'd grown used to the idea that he wouldn't leave her.

Somewhere beyond the circle of Geoff's arms, she heard boards being shifted back into place over the window. She heard unsteady footsteps, moving around the room. _Daud_. The name floated, untethered, through the pitted and blighted landscape of her mind. She curled closer to Geoff.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt.

"For what?"

"For going missing. For- for putting you in Martin's hands-"

He snorted. "I got myself in enough trouble with Campbell. The way I understand it, you managed to make yourself valuable enough that your Martin had a reason to get me out alive, and keep me that way. You saved _my_ life, Cal. Couldn't ask for much more."

"None of it should've happened," she said, barely a whisper.

"I was getting myself in trouble long before you were targeted," he said, catching her chin in one hand and leaning back so he could look into her face. "Outsider's eyes, girl. Daud told me half of what you've been through. And we're both alive, aren't we?"

"Yeah," she gasped through her tears.

"And that's what we promised each other, right? That we'd grow old?"

She nodded.

"Then I don't see you being sorry for anything. Come on. Deep breaths." His own smile was unsteady, and she could see tears in his eyes. She took a deep breath, and then another. No reason to hurt him more. She had to be strong.

Eventually, her chest stopped heaving and spasming, and she could uncurl her fingers from Geoff's shirt. She sat back and tried to remember that she was a grown woman. Daud had taken up a spot by the front door of the apartment, carefully looking away from them.

As she stood up, an inner door of the apartment creaked on its hinges. She looked up in time to see Corvo supporting himself against the doorframe with one hand, the other holding a knife, his knuckles white. He stared down the short hallway and across the room to Daud.

"_Where's Emily?_" he growled.

"Obviously not here," Daud said.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," Corvo spat.

Callista moved to get between the two men; Geoff caught her arm.

"Because you can't, right now. You're still half out of it, Attano," Daud said, but she could read him now. The tensing in the muscles around his mouth, on the side with his scar, said it all: he wasn't sure Corvo _couldn't_ take him out right now. He was half an hour from collapsing. "And because Callista here wants to help you get Emily back. If you want my help, it's yours, too."

Geoff's grip tightened. "_Callista_-"

"It's true," she said. She jerked her arm free and approached Corvo, hands out, fingers splayed. "Corvo, Martin has Emily."

He looked worse than the last time she'd seen him. His eyes were sunken in dark, thin-skinned pits, and while he'd shaved, it was uneven, and she could see scabs from where he'd nicked himself. His hair was still long, pulled back haphazardly. His gaze was unfocused. How much was because of whatever drug they'd given him, and how much of it was bloodlust? She swallowed.

"Martin has Emily, and he's setting himself up to be her guardian. He's going to put her on the throne and puppet her."

"He won't live that long," Corvo said, softly. His gaze settled on her, and as she watched, faded, half-formed emotions twitched across his face.

"I'm going to help," she said.

One corner of his mouth twitched up in a dark mockery of a smile. "Like you helped by sending me to Martin in the first place?"

"I didn't know," she said, hurriedly. "I swear I didn't know. I just wanted you to go to somewhere close to where Emily was. She's- she was- in the tower. The apartment building nearby, the twenty-story one. She-"

His brows drew down. His left hand flexed on the doorjamb. The Mark on it flared to life in a myriad of colors, and suddenly he was behind her, knife at her throat. Geoff shouted and dove for his gun.

Daud stood very still.

"I was _that close_-" Corvo breathed in her ear.

"I tried to tell you, after," she said. "That night in the club, when Martin was on the phone-"

His breathing caught and stuttered. He shifted his grip on his knife.

"He tried to set things up," Callista went on, "so even Emily never knew who he was, that he was behind it. He was going to swoop in and save her."

"And did he?"

"No," she said. "Emily's smart. She picked up on what was going on. He had to- to drug her to get her to go with him. I tried to save her-"

"And you failed."

Her throat bobbed.

"Corvo, step away from Callista," Geoff said, in his steadiest police officer voice. "Do not make me shoot you, Corvo."

"You wouldn't succeed, Curnow," Corvo said with a small huff. "You don't want to see what I could do with that bullet if you fired it."

Callista closed her eyes and tried to stop trembling. Every shudder of her muscles brought her throat dangerously close to the wavering edge of the knife. Corvo was as exhausted as they were, and addled.

When she opened them again, she caught a glint of reflection in the stainless steel sink. No dark-eyed man watched them.

"I failed, yes," she conceded, softly. "But we know his plan. He's going to put Havelock in as Regent, which means if we don't move quickly, we'll be going up against the Abbey and the military. He also doesn't know you're alive - and he doesn't know Daud is, either, not for sure."

"She's right," Daud said. "Samuel dumped your body in a place where nobody should've found you. And Havelock's men have every reason to believe I've slunk off somewhere to bleed out."

"And what about you?" Corvo asked, marked hand closing around her upper arm.

"He saw me fall out a window," she said, "but he also knows I survived it. He doesn't trust me." She took a deep breath. "The Outsider used me, and Martin saw it. So I'm an unknown to him."

"Corvo," Geoff said softly, "let go of her, go back and finish sleeping off the drugs. We'll come up with a plan in the morning."

Corvo's breathing, ragged and uneven, turned to a heavy snort- and then he released her, shoving her away. She stumbled and caught herself on the kitchen table.

"Good choice," Daud said.

"You're dead as soon as I have Emily back," Corvo snarled at Daud, finally looking at him again. And then he limped back into the dark of his bedroom and slammed the door.

Callista sank into a chair and put her head in her hands.

She could hear Geoff and Daud murmuring in quiet, sharp little bursts, and then Geoff was pulling a chair next to her and sitting down, resting his elbows on the table.

"Hey, hey, you're okay," he said.

"That's the second time he's gotten behind me and almost killed me," she said, shaking.

She glanced up to see him smiling tightly. "He's- a hard man to understand. He's been through a lot. More than anybody should go through. His time in Coldridge was not... by the book."

"He blew up an entire manor house filled with innocent people, Uncle," she said.

Geoff froze for a moment, then shook his head and rubbed a hand over his jaw. "These are- strange times."

"Are we doing the right thing?" she whispered. "Giving him back Emily?"

He hesitated again, before shrugging. "Right enough." He took a deep breath, then settled a hand on her back. "Daud," he called, "can you give us a moment?"

"I'll be on the roof," Daud said. She looked up to watch him limp to the window, move the boards.

"No, you don't have to go," she said. "You need to eat something."

"I can take care of myself, Miss Curnow," he said, and the use of her last name knocked the breath from her. Just an hour and a half ago, he'd been-

Her expression must have twinged something in him. He offered her a small smile before slipping out onto the fire escape again. The boarding was put back in place. His footsteps disappeared.

She was still watching the window when Geoff settled his hand over hers.

"Callista, are you okay?"

She turned. "I- okay enough."

His brow furrowed in his _I'm waiting_ signal.

"I'm as well as can be after having the High Overseer almost gun me down, falling out a nineteenth story window, surviving only by the intervention of a heretical god that people stopped believing in lifetimes ago, and almost being slaughtered by Corvo Attano, Uncle. It's been- a hard month. But I'm okay."

"I'm not talking about that," he said, his voice steel. "Callista, your throat-"

She reached up with her free hand. She didn't feel blood, or a cut from Corvo's blade. "It's fine."

"Callista, has Daud- did he-"

_Oh_.

She felt herself turning bright red, and she immediately took her other hand from Geoff and covered her neck with it. Her dress's scoop-neck hid nothing. Her throat must have been a map of red and purple bruises and bites, unignorable, obvious. "I-"

"Callista, I understand you may have had to do horrible things to keep yourself alive, and that's- okay." From his strangled tone, it clearly wasn't. He leaned forward, closer. "But I'm here to keep you safe now. He won't touch you again." The words were an oath. A part of her recognized that this was the correct, loving response.

The rest of her remembered Daud's hands, gloved and not, on her inner thighs, and she had to squeeze her knees together. "It's not like that," she said, wishing she'd had the foresight to tear off a bit of sheet to use as a scarf. Why hadn't Daud _said_ anything? She swallowed, thickly.

"Was it Martin, then?"

"_What_?" She looked at him, eyes wide. And then she laughed, helplessly. "No, absolutely not. No, it- it was Daud. But it wasn't like that."

Geoff scowled. "Callista-"

"It _wasn't like that_," she said. "We're- allies." The word seemed laughable, too, and she covered her mouth with her hand. "I wanted- I _want_-"

"It's... natural to want a sense of control," Geoff said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "And when you're in a horrible situation, where control has been taken from you, it's a natural response to try and bond with whoever _does_ have control over you. It's not as uncommon as you'd think. If you can make your captor happy, he's less likely to harm you. He might even given you things you want, or thing you _think_ you want - except your freedom, or any real control. Callista..."

"That's not what happened," she said, standing up and pulling away from him. Her stomach twisted and churned. "That is absolutely _not_ what happened. I'm fine. This is the least of my problems. This _isn't_ a problem. Shouldn't you be more concerned that a supernatural being walked my body around like a puppet?"

"Daud's a professional killer, Callista," Geoff said, softly.

"And how many people have you killed, Uncle, in the line of duty?" she snapped.

"It's different!" he said, almost snarled, then took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. "After this is all over," he said, "we're going to find somewhere safe to go, okay? The two of us."

"Daud will need somewhere to go, too," she said.

"You heard Corvo. I give Daud a five percent chance of surviving this at all - and that's after whatever chaos we dive back into." He took a deep breath. "Keep that in mind. Protect yourself. If you- need me, I'm here."

"It isn't like that," she mumbled to herself, wrapping her arms around her waist.

"Just keep it in mind." He stood, the chair scraping over the vinyl flooring. "I'm going to go check on Corvo, okay?" His voice was strained, strangled.

He'd never been good at playing the role of father. He was either too lax, or too harsh, and he'd always known it.

Callista nodded. "Sure. I'll be okay."

"There's another bedroom, and the couch folds out. You should sleep."

"I'll think about it," she said.

Geoff lingered a moment longer.

"The Outsider- that's over now. I can't fix that. But Callista, _this_- I can-"

She shook her head and he fell silent.

He stared at her, then turned and went to the shallow hallway and knocked on Corvo's door. Callista turned away as the door opened, and, as it closed, she went to the kitchen.

* * *

Ten minutes later, she maneuvered her way out of the window and up the fire escape. It didn't connect to the roof. She grimaced, and backed up to the railing, peering up.

A shadow moved. A minute passed. And then Daud wandered close enough to see her, and he appeared beside her a moment later.

"I brought food," she said.

He looked her over, then nodded. "Do you want to go up to the roof?"

"Only if you have the strength for it." He was shaking more than ever, now. "We can stay here."

"Too exposed. Roof or inside," he said.

"Roof, then," she said, a wry smile quirking her lips.

He returned it, then hooked an arm around her. They landed heavily on the roof. His marked hand flexed on her hip for just a moment, and then he stepped away.

"You could have warned me," she said as she found a clean spot to put her bundle down on. She'd brought a large bottle of water and two foil packs of tuna, along with a stack of crackers still in its plastic wrap. All of it had expiration dates well past the current year.

"About Corvo?" Daud asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and sitting down heavily on some nearby venting equipment.

"About my neck," Callista said, holding out the bottle. He took it. "Geoff was- concerned."

Daud grunted and unscrewed the top, then took a few long swallows. She watched his throat bob, wondering how it would feel to have _her_ lips there. She looked down and worked open a foil packet.

"He asked me," she said as she dug into the tuna with a cracker, "if you had forced yourself on me. Or coerced me in any way. He didn't believe me when I said no."

"He cares a lot about you," Daud said, setting the bottle down by her knee. "And from some angles, he's not wrong."

She looked up at him, caught his gaze. "And from others, he's absolutely wrong. I made my own choices today. And before."

"As best you were able to," Daud said, and there was a thread of frustration behind his words.

Wordlessly, she handed him the other foil packet, and nudged the crackers closer.

"Tell me about yourself," Callista said as she watched him pick at his tuna. "From the beginning. Or from wherever's most important. But I want to hear about _you_, not about your crimes."

He snorted. "They're one and the same."

"Tell me about the people you used to work with. And Billie," she said, drawing up her memories of the day they'd sat and talked as equals for the first time.

Daud went very still. "They're dead," he said, softly.

"And you cared about them. You told me that much. And you said that maybe, someday, you'd tell me about them. Tell me now."

He stared down at his foil pack, then shook it a few times and scooped out a hunk of pink-grey flesh on a cracker. She watched him eat, watched him dust the crumbs off his fingers. She offered him the water again; he washed his mouthful down, then passed it back to her.

"I'd intended to have something a bit stronger on hand for this conversation," he said.

She waited.

Daud sat with his knees splayed, his elbows braced on his thighs, his hands and head hanging low. He didn't look at her. "I came to Dunwall eighteen years ago," he said. "I'd already killed before that. I started young. But it was different, when I got here. I was on my own. I intended to stay on my own." She watched as he idly picked at his cuticles. His nails were blunt and discolored. He had bruises beneath them, livid purple and black. "I killed because it's what I was raised to do, and because I thought I'd- change the world. Or some shit like that."

"And did you?"

"Maybe. In small ways. I cut my way through gangs. Made a name for myself, then promptly buried it as best I could. Disappeared for a few years, spent some time in the Academy, traveled. Left Dunwall for months at a time, but I always came back. And then one day, a dark-eyed man appeared in my mirror, and talked with me. We spent a long night chatting, while all the pipes in my apartment burst and leaked water onto the ceiling. I came away with his Mark on my hand. He said I'd change the world. Said I was _interesting_."

He shifted, tugged out another bite of fish. He kept his head down while he ate. Callista sipped at her water. It was long past noon now, and darkness was falling fast.

"I found the first kid two days later. He'd killed somebody, in self-defense, but it'd been the wrong person. People were after him. I saw the killing, and I followed him until he was cornered and had nowhere else to go. Something made me stay. Something made me... give him a job. He was the first. And I learned, from dreams and sightings in mirrors and glass and polished taps, that I could put a fraction of my Mark onto him."

"How many were there? By the end?" she asked.

"Twenty-odd. Some had died, or left. And yes, I let them leave. I trusted them. They never betrayed that trust."

"And Billie?"

"She was..." He trailed off, then glanced up at her. "You're not eating."

She huffed a laugh. "I'm too busy listening. Daud-"

He held up a hand, waved off her correction. "Billie was my second in command. She knew everything. I trusted her with- as much of my life as I could. I raised her from a little girl. I sometimes think that if she'd lived past Martin's _winnowing_, she would've stabbed me in the back in another year or two."

Callista sat up straighter, brow drawing down. "What?"

"She wanted to be in charge. I wasn't about to step down. It was the next step in our relationship." He smirked. "Never forget for a minute that we were all a band of hired killers, Callista. I cared about those men and women like they were my family, but we were a family connected by _spilled_ blood. And when any of them betrayed me - because some did, from time to time - I slit their throats and dumped their bodies."

She stared up at him. An Academy-educated killer, touched by a terrifying god, who had lost his entire family. Her stomach twisted. She could see the callouses on his hands, and she could remember how they felt on her skin.

He met her gaze steadily.

"I've had wives, husbands, sons, daughters, all bleed out at my feet. I've kicked a woman in the stomach when she was already bleeding out from three shots. I've slit a man's throat while his kids watched, and only the fact that I was wearing a mask meant I didn't have to kill them, too." His eyes searched her face, and she couldn't hide the way her body was tensing, the way it was getting harder and harder to imagine him without blood slicking his hands. "I tried to be quiet and precise every time," he said, voice dropping to a growl, a purr, "but sometimes that's not what the job was, that's not what I was getting paid for, and I _enjoyed_ the killing, most times."

"_Daud-_" she said, and it came out as a plea. _I asked for this_, she tried to remind herself.

"I struck Emily Kaldwin and threw her out of the way, and while my men held Corvo down, I grabbed the Empress and I slammed her into the guardrail on her favorite gazebo, and I shoved a gun into her chest and blew her heart to pieces. I could've had the sniper on my team take care of her. But I did it myself because I only trusted myself."

"Stop!" she shouted, standing up, sending tuna and crackers scattering across the roof, knocking over the water bottle.

He looked up at her passively. "You need to know this," he said, gently, quietly. "You need to know what you're getting involved with. When all this mess is over, I'm still going to have blood on my hands. I'm still going to be drowning in it."

"You're trying to make me panic," she said.

"Better than trying to soften the edges on it," he said, and at last looked away from her, out over the city. "... I deserve to die, Callista. If Corvo puts a bullet in my brain or a blade in my spine at the end of all of this, I won't be able to argue with him. And you shouldn't, either. It will make you look weak. Deluded. Walk into this with open eyes."

"I don't want you to die," she said.

"And I don't want to die. But that doesn't stop me from deserving it." He rolled his shoulders in an exhausted shrug. "You've- given me more than I ever dreamed of getting. You care about my _life_, not my death. I'm not sure when the last time that happened was."

Her throat worked. Her heart pounded. "Of course I care about your life," she said.

"_Of course_?" He chanced a glance up at her.

She stared down at him. "Caring about death gets me nowhere. It never has."

"How many people have you lost?" he asked, voice softening. "I- never counted."

"Forty-seven," she said, "of varying degrees of closeness. More that I've never known. I can list them, if you like."

His lips thinned, tensed, and he looked down at the ground. "Then you of all people should understand what I've done to everybody I've ever left behind."

Her pulse roared in her ears. "I do," she said.

"Then why would you ever look at me and think, yes, this man should live. Yes, I want to- to-"

"It's not that simple," she said. "You were _paid_ to kill."

"That didn't stop me from enjoying it," he said. "And I was paid to take you. Do you ever think of that? You and Jessamine Kaldwin have that in common; a man ordered me to get rid of you both. And I did. Geoff knew you had been taken. It terrified him. He hides it, but he'd kill me just as quickly as Corvo would, if he didn't think I was useful. And what will you tell Emily, if she sees the marks on your throat?" The softness in his voice remained, but it became twisted with bitterness, with mockery. "That you forgive me for taking you? Because that means you forgive me for killing her mother. What will that do to her?"

"She's not a part of this," Callista said, ignoring his tone, crouching down and righting the all but empty bottle. "I don't deserve her, anyway."

"You're so soaked in death," he said, shaking his head. "It's in your bones. At first, that's what fascinated me about you, did you know that?"

"The Outsider mentioned it to me."

He snorted. "Of course. Did he tell you how I thought maybe if I earned your forgiveness, I'd feel like I'd earn the forgiveness of everybody I'd ever left with a dead lover, a dead parent, a dead child? You were all those faceless people to me. You still are, in a way."

Callista didn't respond, instead turning to look out over the city.

Her heart was a twisted mass inside her chest, its veins and arteries coiling around her throat and stomach and squeezing, curling, choking. Where Daud looked at her and saw the victims he'd left behind, she looked at him and saw- what?

Death on two legs? Death under her power? Death who would talk to her and trust her and never hurt her?

She knew Emily, had seen her rage and pain and fear. Was she going to simply tell her it didn't matter, if not with her words, than by riding Daud until she screamed and came apart, by making a new life that in its very essence invalidated the deaths of so many?

Callista bowed her head. She licked at her lips and turned the thoughts and words over in her head. She'd been steeped in death for too long, a different side of it than he had, and the experience demanded her _own_ voice, not his interpretations and assumptions and cautions. When she spoke, her words flowed soft into the wind, delicate and ready to be chased away. Behind her, she heard Daud stand, come closer to hear.

"The thing about death," she said, staring out at the setting sun, "is that it's never just the pain of realizing you'll never see somebody again. It's how everything has to reorder itself. Even when you know it's coming, you can't see all the changes that will ripple out from the event. It's not just who pays the funeral costs, or who has to start taking care of the kids. It's things like, does anybody remember how to make the deviled eggs for family picnics? Who's going to stand there and watch me walk for graduation? Who can I talk to if I have my own kids someday?"

She didn't dare looking at him. Her heart ached from all the gaps in it. He'd lost twenty-odd people who were as good as family in a few days, but he was already numb to it - or he'd made himself numb to it. She remembered him telling her how he learned to ignore humanity.

She'd never had that luxury.

"They leave holes. Dead people are gaping empty voids. And you can try to pour your heart and your good memories into them, but they're eternally empty, and they eat and eat and eat. Some people don't mind, and it's a comfort, to give and give to those pits. But it's always seemed endless and futile to me. So they're just holes, people-shaped holes with fracture lines spreading out from them. My dad almost remarried, before he died. And the woman he was dating, she was nice enough, but she would have never been _mom_ to me. Just like nobody will ever be _mom_ to Emily, now. If she's lucky, she'll think of herself as a girl who never had a mother. My cousin did that, after his father died. He was the kid without a father. Some other kid had lost his father, and he had taken that kid's place, but he didn't have a father, never had. It eliminates the hole. It smoothes it over.

"And eventually, you just get used to changing. People try to be static; that's their nature. But when you lose, over and over again, you either shut down, or you bow your head and keep walking, sidestepping all the potholes. You get the hang of mourning. You let yourself scream and cry for a day, an hour, a minute, and then you sidestep the hole and you walk on by, and you don't look back, because there's too great a risk of falling into it if you do, and never climbing out again. And so you're not the same ever again, because you have- blinders on, and your feet never stop.

"The people you left behind- they're not like me, Daud. The pain is fresh for them. It's agony. It's unlearnable. They don't have the same practice. I'm not... good to talk to, if you want to understand grieving. I went past it a long time ago. So I don't understand what you've done to them. Not exactly. Not the way you want me to."

She fell silent. Behind her, Daud didn't move. She closed her mouth and let the words reverberate in her ears. _I am a selfish creature_, she thought. She was different than the people walking on the streets below. She'd been different since her brother died, since her parents died, since everything had broken and she'd been left adrift. Nobody else understood, and she'd never wanted anybody to.

She took a breath. Death on two legs stood behind her, the echo to her broken parts.

She turned and looked at him, her Mr. Wolf. His gaze was fixed on her, and there was hunger there, but it wasn't for her touch, her skin, her lips. And it was leashed, controlled. She shied away from it not for its intensity but for Daud's tight mastery of it. He wouldn't let himself take any action that she didn't invite.

And if Corvo put a bullet in his brain tonight, tomorrow, the next day- he'd leave a hole in his wake.

"I can't forgive you for everybody else," she said.

He nodded, slowly. "I know. I wouldn't want you to, anyway."

She reached up and touched her neck, then turned away again. Behind her, he gathered up the detritus of their meal. "I am a selfish creature," she whispered to herself. A selfish, frightened, isolated creature. What Geoff had implied had made her stomach churn, but she made herself face it, look upon it.

It was possible, she realized, that it was simply more comfortable to lie down with death than to keep resisting. It was safer. She took another breath.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, coming to stand beside her. She nodded. She watched from the corner of her eye as he took a deep breath. "Earlier today- in your apartment. Did you want that? Did you want me to..."

His words trailed off, but not before she heard the hints of agony in his voice.

When she opened her mouth to speak, she made herself pause. Had she? In that moment, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He'd come into her space, at her invitation, and he'd delighted in her life, and he'd been vulnerable, truly and willingly vulnerable in front of her.

And his body had been all coiled muscle, and his kisses were like a drug, and she squeezed his hand tight.

"Yes," she said. "I did."

"Good," he exhaled, and his shoulders bowed in relief. "You should sleep," he added, moving over to where the fire escape waited.

"And you."

His throat worked. "You can walk away," he said. "After this is over. Even if I live. Don't forget that - you can walk away at any time. I'm not- not going to keep you here, anymore. I should've gotten you out of Dunwall at the first chance I had."

"I would have chosen to stay," she said, coming to stand beside him.

Gingerly, he put his arm around her waist, pulled her close. The hop down to the landing was short. He watched as she moved aside the boards, passed her the packets and the plastic and the bottle without a word. He followed her into the house and helped her clean up.

"I want to hear more about Billie and the others, some day," she said as she stared at the tap, longingly. There was no running water; it would have broken the illusion of abandonment.

"And I want to hear about your brother," he said.

She looked up, startled.

"I want to hear about the holes in you," he said. "The parts you're so good at hiding. One day. If you'll let me listen."

"I don't... talk about him. Any of them," she said.

"I know," he said, then turned and made his way over to the couch, toeing off his shoes. "I'm going to get some sleep," he said.

She waited, hoping he would look back at her.

He didn't. She made her way to the open bedroom.

* * *

She slept fitfully, her dreams swinging wildly between nightmares of the Outsider walking in her skin again, memories of her brother, and restless thoughts of Daud creeping into her bedroom and sliding into bed with her, pinning her down, kissing her mouth and throat and curling around her until she felt completely safe again.

She woke sometime before dawn to footsteps in the hall. Rolling over, she could make out the sound of Daud's voice, then Geoff's. The scrape of a chair on the floor. The creak of the boards across the window being moved.

One set of footsteps padded in the hallway; not Daud's.

Sleep dragged at her mind, and she frowned into her pillow, distantly worried that Daud wouldn't come back, despite the fact that neither had raised their voices. She fell asleep with a tight brow.

When she woke next, it was midday. Her mind was blurry as she pushed herself out of bed, feet unsteady on the floorboards. Her bun had come down in her sleep, and she tugged out the elastic and ran her hands through her hair as she made her way to the door and bumped it open with her hip.

Corvo and Geoff sat at the kitchen table with a map of the city spread out between them and two mugs of instant coffee steaming. Callista tugged at the hem of her dress and made her way over. Daud was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning," she said, pulling her hair back once more.

Geoff looked up with a warm smile. "Hey, sleepyhead. It's after noon."

She wrinkled her nose. "You could have woken me up," she said as she went to the stock of water bottles and pulled one free.

"You've had a long day," he said, with a wry note to his voice. She scowled at the wall as she tilted her head back and took a long drink of water.

"Where's Daud?" she asked as she wiped her hand across her mouth and turned back to the two men.

"Out," Corvo mumbled.

"Getting more supplies," Geoff said, "and seeing if he can confirm the chatter we're getting over your radio." He pointed with the eraser of a pencil at the quietly clicking black plastic box next to Corvo's elbow.

"What chatter?" she asked, pulling up another chair and settling into it, hands primly in her lap.

"Kingsparrow Island," Corvo said. "The Abbey's fortifying it as we speak, and there might be military presence, too. It's pretty clear to _me_ what's going on."

"We need to be sure, and know exactly what we're getting into," Geoff countered, leveling a stern look at Corvo. Corvo blinked back, unperturbed. "So Daud is going to see what he can find while he's out."

"He needs to rest," Callista said, leaning forward to peer at their map. It spanned the whole city, to the unincorporated suburbs at the very edges. There wasn't much detail on Kingsparrow Island, but there were notes scrawled by it and across the map in three different hands. There were circles drawn around Dunwall Tower, around Holger, around the Island. All possibilities of where Martin was keeping Emily. "Martin hasn't come forward with Emily yet?"

"No, but rumors are flying. Chances are good he's trying to get her somewhere he can protect, in case there's rioting. Or worse." Geoff's gaze lingered on Corvo for a moment before returning to her. "And Daud offered to go. You're not his keeper."

She clenched her teeth and took a deep breath. "Of course not. But he could barely move by the end of last night."

Geoff watched her for a moment, then sighed and shook his head, standing. "Well, he'll be back before too long. We set up a wash basin in the bathroom, if you want to get- cleaned up."

She stood up abruptly and walked around the table, ignoring Geoff as she made her way to the bathroom. She understood it, his need to protect her, but it felt too heavy, too oppressive. She didn't want to deal with his concern right now. That could come later.

She splashed cold water on her face and scrubbed at her throat, her arms, her thighs. Her dress was stiff and stained in places, but some water and scrubbing hid the worst of it. She picked at her scabs and tried not to look at herself in the mirror. She didn't want to see the pattern of red and purple on her throat just now.

What she _wanted_ was to go after Martin, to be on the move again. She didn't want to be- coddled. Or hated. She clutched at edge the stopped-up sink and saw her fingers tremble. She didn't belong here.

Her apartment was gone, raided by this point, and if she looked into the mirror, she was sure she wouldn't recognize the hard, haunted eyes of the woman looking back at her. She was a whaler come back from too many years at sea. She couldn't be Geoff's adopted daughter, any more than she could be Emily's adopted mother.

Her shoulders trembled and she grit her teeth, closed her eyes, and tried to find herself in the tangled mass inside her chest. She was soaked in death, like Daud had said, numbed by it and twisted by it, until she was able to want a man who brought death with him wherever he went, who was the bullet that had punched through her aunt's chest, who was the virus that had taken her mother. And _she _was the woman who was selfish and who wanted to protect a girl she had no right to protect, whom she'd already failed once. She was touched by the Outsider, but not interesting enough for him to leave his Mark on her.

And she didn't want to go back. She didn't want to just be a twenty-something teacher jumping between families and jobs, hoping that eventually her life would make sense.

She opened her eyes and looked into the mirror.

And she almost screamed, because Corvo was standing just behind her, head cocked slightly to one side. His marked hand rested on the doorjamb.

"_Outsider's eyes-_" she gasped out when her lungs relaxed enough that she could speak. "How long have you been there?"

"A minute or so," he said. "I want to talk."

"Can we do it without you threatening my life, this time?" she asked, turning to face him.

He looked- better, after a night's rest. Still haunted. Still broken in some way she couldn't place.

"The Outsider spoke to me last night," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He was taller than Daud, and lankier, and she feared him in a way she'd never feared Daud. Daud had been predictable from the start, but Corvo...

"What did he say?" she asked, lifting her chin a fraction of an inch.

"That Emily would have screamed for you, if she had the chance. That it was your death or life that could have changed yesterday, not Emily's." He frowned, the muscles at the corners of his mouth tensing and jumping with- what? Rage? Predatory instinct? Fear? "You told me you were Emily's teacher - was that a lie?"

"No," she said. "Martin had me kidnapped so Emily could have a live-in teacher that nobody would miss. I lived with her for a month."

"How was she?"

"Scared," Callista said, looking away. "Angry. She knew she wasn't in control of anything, and she hated it. Even though nobody was ever cruel to her." She thought of Daud shoving Emily into her room, locking the door. _Never cruel without a reason_, she amended. _Never really cruel, just gruff. Forceful_.

"And Daud? Where was he?"

"There. The whole time. Before me," she said. "He was her caretaker. He made her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He gave her as much space as he could. He wanted..."

"What? Her forgiveness?" Corvo asked, laughing. It was a sharp, jagged, twisted laugh, and Callista did her best not to flinch. "He's an idiot."

"We did what we could," she said. "We tried to make her feel like she had _some_ control."

"But she didn't, did she?" he asked, advancing a step.

Callista flattened herself against the sink basin.

"... No," she conceded. "It was an illusion." She cringed a moment longer, but then she scowled and took a step forward. "But we did what we _could_."

"You could have taken her and run."

"And taken her from her life again? Only to be chased down by Martin? He would've had us gunned down! Would have 'rescued' Emily, and she'd have thanked him!"

"You should have told me where she was, from the beginning!" he snarled, advancing until there was no space between them, looming over her. His hand flexed; his Mark pulsed. He took a deep, shaking breath. "... But thank you," he said, looking away, "for taking care of her as much as you did. The Outsider said that things would be... very different, if you'd taken your chances to run, or if you'd ended your life."

"Does he talk to you often?" she asked, leaning back on her heels.

"Every night," Corvo breathed, and his brow furrowed as if in pain. He stepped back and pressed his bare hand to his forehead. "When I sleep. Sometimes when I don't think I'm asleep. He showed me the way out of Coldridge, and he's been there every step of the way since then, talking. I try to keep him entertained."

"Entertained," she repeated.

"But I don't know what he _wants_."

She swallowed, thickly. "He wants futures," she said. "You and Daud- you can... _do_ things. Set things in motion. You're like stones on the surface of a placid lake. Making ripples. The rest of us are the surface." She squinted, rubbing at her temple at a flash of pain. "He can- see all those ripples. And he likes the choices that defy expectations. At least- that's what he told me. What I saw."

Corvo frowned. "Saw?"

"He walked in my skin, to get me out of the Tower," she said. "His thoughts bled into mine."

"Are you Marked?" Corvo asked.

She shook her head. "No. I don't make ripples. Not like you."

Corvo looked down at his hand. "I keep trying to impress him," he said, quietly. "With the strength of my convictions. The pureness of my rage. But he never seems satisfied."

The white flash of the Boyle manor exploding filled her mind's eye, and she reached out with a shaking hand. "Just.. do what it takes to get Emily back. No matter if it interests him or not."

"I need his support to get her back," he said.

She shook her head. "He's bored with Daud. The Mark doesn't go away."

Corvo flexed his hand again, then turned away. "Does Emily miss me?" he said after a moment.

"Very much," she said. "She wanted me to tell you - the night of the masked ball - that she was okay. She didn't want you to worry."

His head bowed.

Out in the main room, the boarded window creaked and shifted.

"We'll get her back," Callista said. "I promise."

"_I'll_ get her back," Corvo murmured, and then he flitted down the hallway in stuttering bursts, and Callista stared; she'd never seen Daud move that way before, and when Corvo stepped forward and ended up at the other side of the room, her brain screeched at the wrongness of it.

She turned back to the sink and splashed more water onto her face. When she looked into the mirror, blinking away the droplets of water on her eyelashes, she saw only her own brown eyes, her own narrow chin, her own dun hair.

She was herself.

She turned and joined the others at the kitchen table.

* * *

"Martin is holding Emily on Kingsparrow Island," Daud said. "My old maps of the lighthouse were lost when the Abbey raided my base last year, and there have been substantial alterations made in that time." He smoothed out a sheet of clean paper and leaned over it, sketching out the outlines of the fortress. "It's been militarized and was going to be dedicated to Burrows come the anniversary of his regency, as a testament to his strength of rule, and his unwavering devotion to protecting the people."

Geoff snorted. Corvo hovered over Daud's shoulder, watching intently.

"From what we know," Daud continued, "there are going to be two layers of protection, beyond just the reinforced walls and bunkers. Martin commands the entire Abbey, and will no doubt bring the Warfare Overseers to his aid. Meanwhile, Havelock, the Regent-apparent, has been reinstated into the military in a quiet ceremony this morning. He'll have marines with him. It's unclear at this point who specifically is holding Emily, but my bet would be on Martin."

"Except," Callista said, "that the lighthouse is a military outpost. It'd be a media nightmare if the Overseers were in full control of it, wouldn't it? People have been lobbying for the abolition of Warfare Overseers for years now."

Geoff nodded. "It's likely Martin's thinking about that, yes. So Havelock would have official control over the island."

"In either case, we can assume Emily is in the most fortified portion of the island," Daud said, as he sketched in more walls and lines, leaving blank gaps where he was uncertain of the layout. "With another day of rest, Corvo and I should be able to get in - if all goes well, and Corvo is willing to try stealth for a change." Daud's gaze flicked up to Corvo, challenging.

Corvo looked back at him levelly.

"And what about me?" Callista asked.

"You won't be going," Geoff said. "And neither will I."

"I promised I would help," Callista said, leaning forward and catching Daud's gaze. "Let me help."

Daud looked back at her, tapping a finger on the map. Then he pushed away from the table and began to pace, reaching into his pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He plucked one out, along with a lighter stashed inside of the cardboard, and lit it. "You're going to be useless in a straight fight," he said as he brought it to his lips. "Self-defense I can probably grant you if it's one-on-one, and without a gun - but you can't be on the front lines, and you won't be able to keep up with me or Corvo."

Callista took a deep breath, jaw clenched.

"I agree," Geoff said.

"But," Daud interrupted, blowing smoke out through his nose, "she does have one advantage we don't have."

"Which is?" Corvo asked.

"Martin wants to know what happened to her." He tapped out ash, then came back to the table and offered his cigarette to Callista, idly. She considered for just a moment, then plucked it from his hand and took a long drag. "And he's been trying to get her cooperation for the last month. My guess," he said, carefully averting his eyes as Callista exhaled, "is that he wants her approval. It's a symbolic thing. He sees himself as the charming savior who, alas, has been forced by fate to use less than above-board methods."

"He saw me as a liability," she said.

"Only because he's a smart man and you'd been goading him," Daud replied, easily. "If the last month had gone differently, I guarantee you that he'd have delighted in bringing you around to his point of view. And imagine the benefit he gets if you're on his side. Emily _trusts_ you. Or could have trusted you."

Geoff looked between the two of them. Callista rolled the cigarette between her fingers, staring down at the map.

"And Martin," she said, slowly, "doesn't know that either you _or_ Corvo is alive, not for sure."

Corvo made an interested, approving sound beside her.

"And Martin also has to be wary of Havelock- and Pendleton. They both know his secrets. And Havelock could take all the glory, if he's not careful. Meanwhile, Pendleton is a wreck over the death of his brothers. It's hard to tell how he's feeling. Remorseful? As of yesterday, he'd been missing since the explosion."

"You're the least of his worries," Daud agreed, softly.

She handed the cigarette back to him. He wedged it between his lips as he leaned forward and peered at the map.

"We already know he's prone to panicking," Callista said, looking at Corvo. "He went from playing the long game, with keeping Emily in captivity for months, to rushing through five assassinations in under two weeks."

"Not all of that was him," Corvo said, sitting back. "I... pushed."

"And he was willing to _be_ pushed," Callista said. "He was terrified of you. Is. He didn't know if he could control you indefinitely. He was ready to put you down like a rabid dog."

Corvo's lips curled mirthlessly. "He would have succeeded, too, if I didn't have Samuel in my pocket."

"Can we use Samuel?" Daud asked. "For transport?"

"Maybe," Corvo said. "We set up a system of contact a week ago. It might hold, if he isn't dead."

"Martin is prone to panicking," Callista said again, rubbing at her throat absently. "His co-conspirators are potential wildcards."

"Potential," Daud said, "but not likely. Havelock in particular is a simple man. He doesn't want absolute power - he just wants his command back. Martin's not going to doubt him easily."

"Not unless we give him a reason to."

Geoff grunted, and she looked over to see him watching her with an odd mix of frustration and- awe. He couldn't have approved of the shared cigarette, which Daud was now grinding out against the tabletop. "What are you thinking of?" he asked, quietly.

"I go to Martin."

"He'll have you arrested or killed on sight," Geoff said.

"Then I make myself valuable. I tell him that Daud's on his way, and I've realized I sided with the wrong guy. Or I tell him Corvo's not dead. I tell him I have information, and that I want to be on _his_ side now."

"He's not going to take well to that," Geoff said. "You already screwed him over- multiple times, it sounds like?"

"But if he wants her approval and acknowledgment," Daud said, "we might have a chance."

"And if he's having trouble keeping Emily calm," Corvo added, softly, "he'll want her help."

"So we let him know you're both coming? Great plan. What about stealth?" Geoff asked, shaking his head. "We're going in circles."

Callista shook her head, standing up. "Corvo and Daud are both very good at their jobs. So what if instead of going straight for Emily, we go first for Martin's communications? Get him out of contact with Havelock? I plant the idea that maybe Havelock's planning something, either an attack on Martin if he's the one who has Emily, or keeping Emily captive if Havelock has her, and then we take out their communication lines. They can't verify their alliance. Martin gets paranoid, does something stupid."

"We take advantage of the chaos to get Emily," Daud finished.

"It's a gamble," Geoff said. "One that's unnecessary. I could tap my contacts in the force, maybe we could do this directly-"

"As a back-up," Daud interrupted. "It's even more of a gamble."

"Besides," Corvo said. "I like it. I want to see Martin squirm. I want to bring his world crashing down."

"Then do it with a gun!" Geoff snapped. "You're not using my niece to do it. This scheme has what- a one in twenty chance of working out? Less?"

Corvo stood, towering over the table. "Geoff Curnow, you were once a military man, weren't you?"

"I was."

"And then police?"

"Yes."

"And did you _ever_ enjoy rushing a fortified position where the enemy was confident they could hold it?"

Geoff didn't respond.

"Callista is going to help me get Emily back," Corvo said, softly. "Until and unless you find another plan."

"I can do this, Uncle," she said, though when she looked up, she met Daud's gaze instead.

He nodded to her.

"It'll work," Daud said. "Callista has already proven herself on extraction jobs."

Geoff scowled, his hands curling into fists. She could see the warring desires in him: wanting to understand, wanting to protest, wanting to trust her. And then he flattened his hands against the table and stood up, going to peek out between the boards on the window. "Bring her back alive," Geoff said, "or if Corvo doesn't kill you, I will."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15**_

They waited only until the next evening; any longer and Corvo would have abandoned the plan and struck out on his own- or put a bullet in Daud's chest. Callista remained in the same rumpled black dress and the marks on her neck faded in intensity only a fraction. Daud's wounds healed, faster than they should have. Geoff tried to talk with her, but couldn't find the words, and Daud spent long hours up on the roof by himself. Corvo paced.

Samuel responded to Corvo's attempts at communication. Geoff spent hours listing out who he thought might be safe to contact.

The air was heavy, and Callista longed for the open spaces of the penthouse.

The evening came, and they made their way down to the streets below with the sun hidden behind clouds, Daud lit and passed her a cigarette. It took the place of any kiss or quick touch, and had the added benefit of helping to steel her spine.

When they reached the river, they found Samuel waiting, boat draped in a tarp to hide it. Corvo explained the plan: they'd approach the lighthouse in two waves. Callista would go first, and Corvo and Daud would follow and gain entry from different points.

"And him?" Samuel said with a nod to Geoff.

"I'm going to need to borrow a car," Geoff said.

Samuel humphed and jerked a thumb towards a warehouse a few blocks down. "Around back. Bring it back in one piece." He fished a set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Geoff.

Geoff caught them with a sharp nod, then drew Callista into a quick, fierce hug. He whispered in her ear, "You don't have to do this. Come with me, we'll get help another way."

She shook her head.

"You don't have risk your life for him," he murmured, fervently.

"I'm not. I'm risking it for Emily." She pulled back, looked him in the eye. "And what about you, going into the lion's den that nearly got you killed a month ago? You don't have to risk your life for-"

Geoff's gaze went to Corvo.

"Him," Callista said, softly.

Geoff didn't answer, his jaw tight, lips pressed to a thin line.

"He can defend himself," she reminded him with a quick smile. And then she gave him another squeeze and stepped back, turning to face Samuel.

"Ready?" Daud asked.

She glanced to him, met his testing, searching gaze. She nodded. "As I'll ever be."

"Then get going."

Corvo was silent as she climbed into the small motorboat and settled onto the low bench. As Samuel climbed in behind her, sending the boat rocking, Geoff turned and headed for the warehouse. Corvo stared out across the river. Daud's eyes never left her, until she could only see a shadow on the shore.

"It's a bold plan," Samuel said, startling her. She twisted in her seat.

"Corvo's a bold man," she said.

He snorted. "No question."

"... Weren't you Martin's guy?"

"Havelock's," Samuel responded as the boat skipped over the choppy surface of the water. "But I have a hard time trusting a man who could lie to and then try to off a guy like Corvo. For what, power?"

"Power. Security," she said, shrugging. "Isn't that what we're all after? With... varying methods of getting it?"

Samuel looked out towards their destination. "Corvo killed a lot of people, that night at the estate."

"Did you know he was going to do it?"

"I suspected." He worked his cheeks and mouth a moment, before continuing, "If I didn't think it'd just make the situation worse- if it wasn't just him going in- I might've considered... but I won't. You have my word."

"What?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Do you really trust him with that little girl?" Samuel asked, engine jolting.

Callista twisted, looked back at the shore. "No," she conceded. "But he's the best chance she has. Everybody else will use her. He'll just- kill everybody who gets in her way."

Samuel didn't say anything.

Hunkering down against the cold spray of water each time they crashed into a swell, Callista rubbed at her face and forehead. No, she didn't trust Corvo with Emily, but at least with Corvo, Emily's demands would be met. And Corvo's obsession with her was shot through with grief and need that she couldn't understand. But he had Geoff's support.

The previous night, she'd watched as Daud had left the safehouse for the roof again, and instead of following him, she'd made her way towards her bedroom. Voices had stopped her. Corvo's door had been cracked open.

"We'll get her back," Geoff had said, quietly, and she could picture him laying a hand gently on Corvo's shoulder, his forearm. "You'll get her back."

Corvo hadn't answered. The bed had creaked. Callista had bowed her head and thought about moving, about joining Daud out on the roof again.

And then, quiet and rough, Corvo's voice had floated out past the cracked door: "Last night, I saw her about to fall. Farley Havelock had his arm around her chest. I had my gun pointed at him. I shot. He stumbled back. He lost his grip. They both passed out over the edge of a great height, above a raging whirlpool."

"Bad dreams are normal. We all have bad dreams." Geoff's tone was soothing- and wholly focused. She heard fabric rustling. Geoff's shirt? Corvo's?

"It wasn't a dream, Curnow."

"Tell me," Geoff said.

The bed creaked.

The door shut.

Now, Callista stared up at the lighthouse, with its heavy metal walls and its barricades. The winds were picking up for an early winter storm, the bay beginning to churn. What would Corvo do, when the whirlpool began? Had they already circumvented that future? Were there others?

She swallowed thickly.

"Ready?" Samuel asked.

"Yes," she said, after a long exhale.

"Can't get you out once you go in," he warned. "I have to go back immediately, get the others."

"I understand."

"Sure you don't want a gun?"

She looked down to see him offering her a sidearm he must have had tucked into his jacket. She wanted it, badly, wanted the security of curling her fingers around the butt of it. "I can't look like a threat," she reminded him.

And she climbed out of the boat.

"Right, then. Well, good luck," Samuel said. She didn't look back.

Behind her, the motor puttered softly and the waves whispered. She was alone. Corvo and Daud were at least fifteen minutes behind her, while her uncle grasped for assistance where there might be none. She tugged her bun down, harshly; it would make her look more forlorn. More pitiful.

She hoped that she was right about Martin, and began to approach the lighthouse.

Her eyes went to every reflective surface that she passed. In each and every one, she thought she caught a glimpse of a hollow-eyed man, but she passed each without seeing his form firm to something undeniable. Her throat thickened and her knees weakened, but she kept her head high the entire march to the first checkpoint.

When she could see the figures in blue coats and glinting bronze warfare masks, she spread her arms and slowed to a halt. Over the wind and the gusting, light rain, she could hear the click of readied rifles. She held her breath.

"Identify yourself," a voice demanded, crackling over nearby speakers.

"Callista Curnow," she said, tilting her chin up and shouting over the wind.

The figures on the wall shifted. Electricity arced below them.

"Callista Curnow," the speakers crackled again, "get down on your knees with your hands behind your head. Your death has been called for by the Abbey of the Everyman and the interim government. Do not resist."

"I have news for High Overseer Martin!" she shouted, even as she sank to her knees on the rough cement. Her heart hammered in her throat. "Daud is alive! Tell him Daud is alive, and on his way!"

There was no response for the better part of an agonizingly long minute, and then she saw doors open in the side of the gatehouse, watched as overseers - four of them - marched out with weapons trained on her head and gut. She stayed utterly still and closed her eyes as they approached, waiting for the crack of gunfire, the flaring pain and the sudden peace.

The booted footsteps reached her. A rough hand closed around one of her wrists and wrenched her arm painfully behind her back. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as they dragged her to her feet and pulled her other arm behind her, tightening a ziptie around her wrists until her bones protested. One of the overseers centered his palm between her shoulders and shoved her forward, and she stumbled.

"The High Overseer wants to hear what you have to say in person," said another man, taking her elbow. She opened her eyes as he pulled her along. "You should thank him for his mercy, and us for ours. Orders were to shoot you through the heart and head on sight."

She swallowed down her panic. "Thank you for giving me a chance, then," she managed, weakly.

The man's mask was unchanging, twisted into a threatening rictus grin. She couldn't even see his eyes.

As they approached the gate, her armed guard stopped, and the overseer she assumed had bound her wrists came around to the front of her, holding a metal, hinged thing in his hands.

"Overseer?" he asked from behind his mask.

"Put it on her."

She cringed back instinctively as he pressed the curved front of what had to be a collar to her neck, but she couldn't pull away fast enough to stop him from closing the hinge and snapping the fasteners closed.

"What-"

They walked straight for the sparking gate, and she closed her eyes and hunched her shoulders as much as her bound wrists would allow her to.

She passed through unharmed, with nothing but a shiver down her spine.

The rain picked up as they led her up stairs, through more checkpoints, through narrow open-air hallways with guards walking along at head level. Sharp slices of water bit into her cheeks and shoulders. She stumbled and shivered, heart never slowing its frantic alarm in her chest. Around her, she could see snipers in position, all in Abbey colors. There was no sign of Havelock's men, and she stared across the bridge that led up to the lighthouse itself, towering above the river, its base made of a slick material studded with arcing deterrents to any would-be scalers.

They didn't take her to the bridge. Instead, they took her to a door leading up into a control room. The overseer who had collared her buzzed in with a passcode she didn't catch.

The door opened.

Teague Martin sat in all the glory of his red uniform, one ankle propped on his knee, waiting for her. Her guards shoved her forward and she stumbled, falling down to one knee.

"Daud's alive?" he asked, as if they'd been talking for hours already, tone light and easy.

She shook as she lifted her head. Her dress was soaked through and the metal collar weighed heavily on her clavicle. Her wrists ached and protested. "Yes. And on his way."

"To get you?" Martin asked with a mocking twist of his lips.

"No. To kill _you_."

"Does he want his captive back? Is that it?" Martin stood, approaching a few paces. Behind her, his overseers still watched. She racked her brain.

"Wouldn't you? She's- important."

"Keeping a girl hidden from the world for ten months- yes, Daud is a sick, twisted creature. I'll have him slaughtered the moment he arrives."

_Right choice_, she thought, and tried not to let her relief show. She'd guessed Martin's story correctly: Martin had rescued the child empress from Daud, a known killer and deviant, possibly involved in Jessamine's murder. Corvo was likely left out entirely, to avoid questions. She stared up at Martin as he came to stand a foot away, peering down at her.

"I have information that can help," she said.

"And why should I trust you?" he asked. "You were his accomplice. I should have you shot and mounted where he can see you when he arrives."

Her stomach twisted.

"I was his captive, too. I got out. You gave me the opportunity."

"Oh, right- your little adventure through the window of a nineteen story building. Tell me, how did you survive that? We didn't find anything, not even a speck of blood." He leaned forward, caught her chin in his gloved hands and jerked it up. "The people, obviously, can't know that sometimes the Outsider still walks among us. Our order made a choice many generations ago that the best way to stamp out belief in that demon was to ignore its existence. Never bring it up in a single sermon again. And what do you know- people forgot about it altogether. Until Daud, with his madness and his heresy. And _you_."

He let go of her, shoved her back with enough force that her leg gave and she sprawled on the floor.

"My brothers," he said, looking up to each of them in turn, "I have seen this woman's eyes go pitch black and hollow, like the old records describe of those possessed by the Outsider. She is a known accomplice of a man who wears the heretical Mark on his hand."

"He possessed me," Callista managed, propping herself up on her side and trying to get her feet under her. She kicked off her shoes to help; it made her guards tense, hands moving to their weapons. "But then he left me vomiting in the streets."

"_He_, Miss Curnow?"

"The Outsider. He stole my body from me because it was more _interesting_ than letting me die. I never made a bargain with him."

He looked at her levelly.

"He never put his Mark on me," she said.

"You were yet again a helpless victim?"

"_Yes_," she said, managing to get up on her knees.

He considered her, then lifted a hand. "All of you except Overseer Franklin, please exit the room. Overseer Franklin, please assist me in verifying Miss Curnow's claim."

Franklin - the overseer who had dragged her along - pulled her up to her feet. The others filed out of the room obediently. As soon as the door shut, Franklin slipped a knife between her wrists and the ziptie, and cut through it in a smooth motion.

"Strip, Miss Curnow," Martin said.

Her hands stilled where they had been rubbing feeling back into her wrists. "... What?"

"Prove to me you do not bear his Mark. We'll give you new clothing after that. But I'm not about to let that _thing _anywhere near me again."

Callista refused to move.

"I said strip, Miss Curnow. I promise you, you will not be harmed - unless you're lying. Are you lying?"

She swallowed, hard, then with shaking fingers, she grabbed the hem of her dress and hauled it up over her head. She cast it aside and held her arms out. "Happy?" she mumbled.

Martin looked at her, blandly. "Everything, Miss Curnow."

"Martin-"

"_High Overseer_ Martin, Miss Curnow," he corrected, his voice soft and heavy with warning. "Attempts at connecting on a personal level will get you nowhere. I'm being merciful - as an associate of Daud's and a known vessel of the Outsider, you should already be dead or imprisoned, awaiting- questioning, as to your precise relationship with the Void."

_He wants me to trust him, to side with him_, she told herself as she reached up with fumbling hands for the clasp of her bra. _This is a means to an end_. She unhooked the band, slid her arms out of the straps, and tried to ignore how cold the room was.

His expression never changed. His gaze flicked down for half a second to her breasts, but no longer - just long enough to look for any tattoo or brand.

That alone gave her the strength to push her underwear over her hips and let it pool around her ankles. She stepped out of it and, closing her eyes, lifted her hands and did a full turn.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

"Overseer Franklin?" Martin asked.

"I see no signs of a Mark, High Overseer," Franklin said, "but there are records of individuals consorting with dark powers that did not bear such brands. The vast majority."

"Hm." She heard Martin step away, and opened her eyes to see him going to an equipment locker. Franklin took hold of her wrists and pinned her in place while Martin turned his back to her, crouched and gathered what looked like a uniform from the bottom of the locker. He came back and tossed the fabric at her feet. "This is true, brother. Still, we are in a delicate situation with the heir."

"A witch has a lying tongue," Franklin said.

Martin took Callista's chin in his hand again. "Oh, I know," he said. "But I think I can sort truth from heresy."

His gaze was a challenge. She looked down, hoping to seem submissive- and not avoidant.

He let go. "Get dressed, Miss Curnow. Franklin, bind her wrists again as soon as she's decent. I'll speak with her alone."

"Sir-"

"Trust me on this one. I've seen Miss Curnow's file."

His eyes and Franklin's never left her as she crouched and pulled her underwear and bra back on, then slipped into the too-large fatigue pants and the form-fitting material of the black shirt he'd left her. It must, she thought as she pulled the neckhole over her head and realized there was a hood, be what overseers wore beneath their uniform jackets, to protect the backs of their heads when they were wearing their masks.

It all hung awkwardly on her, but she was covered, at least. And it was clean.

She extended her arms behind her, and Franklin bound them again, just as tight as before. Behind her, the door opened, then closed again. Martin turned from her and made his way over to his desk, which was covered in maps and computer screens. He seemed to ignore her, peering at one of the monitors. She watched, throat thick, waiting.

"Good to see you again, Miss Curnow. I was worried, you know," Martin said.

"Worried?" she asked, and the word threatened to take on a hysterical tone - of triumph, of content, of anger, of fear.

"I've seen what the Outsider can do to people. Poor Dr. Joplin won't live another year, you know. The Outsider's presence in his mind has- broken something. He gets recurrent encephalitis, and eventually it will be beyond our ability to control. It will be a great loss, don't you think?"

Callista said nothing, too focused on mastering herself and ignoring his quiet threat.

As she watched, Martin straightened, drumming a finger on his desk. And then he turned and casually unholstered his pistol and levelled it at her forehead. Callista kept her eyes on him. She locked down every urge to duck, to cringe, to flinch, tapping into the deep reserve of numbness in her.

"So, tell me why you're actually here," he said. "Your story sounds good to anybody on the outside, but I know how the both of you work. Daud wouldn't have let a liability like you escape, and you wouldn't have turned on him."

"Daud is dead," she said.

Martin's hand didn't waver, but his eyebrows drew down a fraction. "Dead?"

"Corvo killed him. Slaughtered him, for what he did to the Empress." She kept her expression still, blank. Shell-shocked. She knew the feeling well.

"Then why did you tell my men that Daud's on his way?"

"Because I guessed that you wouldn't have told anybody that Corvo was involved, alive, and after you. I didn't want to give that away, without your permission."

He raised a brow and inclined his head. Not quite a _thank you_, but an acknowledgment that she'd been right to respect him. "He's not _supposed_ to be alive. His involvement with Emily, if any, would be purely tangential, the ravings of a madman who wants to finish whatever sick plan he started by killing her mother. So no, I haven't mentioned it yet."

Callista nodded. "But you're not stupid enough to believe he's dead without proof. So I knew you'd want to hear that he's coming."

His expression shifted, minutely. Was that- pleasure, at being understood? She didn't underestimate him, certainly. "When? Clearly Daud had some time alone with you between when you fell out of that window and when he died, unless you're trying to tell me that _Corvo_ left those marks?" His gaze dropped to her throat, and she flushed.

"It was Daud," she said. "He had rescued my uncle - that was why he wasn't at the penthouse the other morning." The gun pointed at her had become a dark blur in her peripheral vision, her focus wholly on Martin's face. It helped ease the panic beating at the gates of her self-control. "He came to get me after he had gotten my uncle to one of his old safehouses. We made a stop at my old apartment - to let me gather anything of my old life I wanted. We were going to leave the city."

"And then you had a moment of sublime connection," Martin said, a mocking lilt to his words.

Callista grimaced, nodded. "Something like that," she said.

"And then?"

"And then we went to see my uncle. Who was dead, his throat slit. We thought it was your fault- for about five seconds, before Corvo stepped out of the shadows. I guess his body must have been dumped somewhere along Daud's path, and he'd followed him back to the safehouse." Her voice caught, and she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut as if in pain. "Is that enough?"

"Why'd he leave you alive?"

"He didn't know I was there. Daud went in first. I ran."

Martin was silent a moment, and then she heard him holstering his pistol. "So, what? You came here for protection?"

Callista opened her eyes and turned back to him. "No. Yes. Mostly to stop him. He's going to come for Emily, and you, and there's no way that I'm letting him get within a hundred yards of her. Not after what he did to the Boyle manor. I had to warn you."

"Well, you have. Good work." He eyed her in her borrowed fatigues. "So you're alone, now, in the whole world?"

"Except for you," she said.

She tried not to be too pleased at the satisfied smile that briefly quirked his lips before he turned away and went to pour himself a glass of wine.

"Drinking?" she asked. "When Corvo's on his way?"

"I can handle a glass of wine," Martin said. "Though I will put out the alert. I'm rather glad I didn't rush to officially declare Corvo dead. I was hoping his body would be found, and I could deliver the news of his death to a relieved public. This might be even better, despite its added danger." He stepped behind his desk and pressed an intercom key.

"This is High Overseer Martin," he said, voice clear and level, with the same superior, dispassionate tone he'd used with Overseer Franklin. "All Warfare Overseers are to marshall to stations. The fugitive and enemy of the state Corvo Attano has been seen, and may be making for the Lighthouse grounds. If you see him, do not hesitate to shoot. He bears the Mark of the Outsider, and has been proven to be dangerous and unstable after his murder of the Empress."

He clicked the intercom off.

"And will you alert them to Daud?" she asked, flexing her hands behind her back to try to keep some feeling in them. "Since Franklin and the others- everybody at the main gate heard me."

"_Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a man's mouth_," he said, taking up his wine glass. "You lied to me, obviously. I don't need to tell any of them that; they likely guessed it from the first moment you spoke." He took a sip, then rolled the stem in his hand. "And I pulled the truth from you. When was the last time you saw Corvo?"

"A few hours ago," she said, too afraid to lie.

"Really? Now _that's_ interesting. When?"

"When I was looking for Samuel Beechworth. Daud pointed him out to me at the Boyle estate. I needed a way to get here, and he was the only one who made sense."

Martin leaned on the edge of his desk. "And Corvo was meeting with him?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"And then he left, I guess to get supplies. I talked to Samuel. He's frightened of Corvo, doesn't think he should be anywhere near Emily. He agreed to get me to you so I could tell you he was coming."

He looked her over, then stood up and hooked his arm through a chair, carrying it over to where she stood. "Sit. Tell me exactly what you expect to get out of all of this."

"Safety," she said. "My life. Maybe not a lifetime of imprisonment." She sank into the chair, keeping her eyes on him the whole time. "I don't- want to be near Emily, I don't want power, I just want... to live."

Martin took another sip of wine, then held it out to her, at the level of her lips.

Eyes on him, she let him tilt the glass to her mouth, and she swallowed down a tiny mouthful.

He stepped away, then, looking out the windows of the command room. "Emily is being... less cooperative than I had hoped for. Her run-in with the plague changed my plans tremendously."

"You didn't want her to know about you at all."

"Mm. Things became complicated when you got past Daud and left the tower," he said. "At the time, I thought of it as- many things. I decided eventually that it was good fortune, because Corvo was very, very useful. Now I think it was a disaster. How did Corvo find you, again?"

"Emily gave me a swan comb to wear in my hair. Everything else was chance."

"Chance." He rolled the word about his tongue, took another sip of wine. "Chance that Daud passed out with his door unlocked. Chance that Emily gave you a comb. Chance that you and Corvo walked the same streets at the same time. Chance that he even saw you. And chance, too, that Emily caught the plague - and that Corvo survived the poison we gave him." Carefully, he set aside his now-empty wineglass. "I am either having an incredibly horrible string of bad luck, or it isn't chance."

"You think somebody _planned_ this?"

"I think," he said, "that your recent _guest_ influences things more than the Abbey will consider. Corvo wears his Mark - I can only assume he had the Outsider's assistance in getting out of Coldridge. And did you know, I've come to find out that one of the head wardens at Coldridge wears a Mark as well? And Daud- though I knew that when I hired him. Piero... I figured out after Havelock had recruited him. There's too high a concentration of heretics here - that's the problem." His lips curled. "Or I'm overly ambitious. One of the two."

She watched him without a word.

"At any rate," he continued, "Emily refuses to cooperate. She screams and howls and refuses to believe I want to help her."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have drugged her and dragged her away," Callista said, before she could stop herself.

Martin canted his head. "And how do you know that's what I did?"

Her breath caught. "I-"

"Did your _guest_ tell you that?" he asked, softly, approaching her chair.

"... Yes."

"And how did he know, Miss Curnow?" He dropped to a crouch, bringing his face close to hers. He fitted one gloved hand around her throat, just above the metal, thumb stroking her pulse as if to soothe her.

She swallowed, her neck pushing out against his hand and the metal band. "He sees- all possibilities. Some of it bled into me."

Martin's eyes narrowed as he considered her. "All possibilities?"

"Past and present and future. That's how he knew when to- move me out of the way. How I knew I couldn't stop you." Her throat worked, and Martin's fingers tightened, just a little. Her eyes were wide, and he drank in her panic, somewhere behind his concern and focus.

"And did you know that Corvo would kill Daud?"

"Maybe. I don't remember." The words came out in a rush, not entirely lies. "It was all- overwhelming. I saw violence, a lot of violence. Daud shot through the chest in an alley. Me lying at your feet bleeding out. I saw-"

_Oh._

The thought crashed over her and in its perfection, she held her breath. Waited. Begged him to push.

Martin's fingers flexed. "And here? Now? Did you see anything about where this all ends?"

"It's all heretical knowledge," she pointed out.

"Tell me what you saw, Miss Curnow," he murmured, gaze fixed on her, unmoving.

She calculated, considered, weighed every aspect of him she knew. "... You win," she said. "Emily hates you, but you win. She sits in the back of a car with a frozen expression, and you place her on the throne."

Martin closed his eyes for a moment, then frowned, lips twitching momentarily into a snarl. "Don't lie to me, Miss Curnow."

He was overthinking it, blowing right past the suspicion that she could be making it all up, and going right to the frightening possibility that she was lying to him, manipulating him to destroy him, like he would do. Her heart thudded in her chest.

This was it.

She wet her lips. "... Havelock betrays you. It's only one possibility, but it's a large one. He realizes he doesn't want an Abbey yoke on him, resents that you know enough to control him. He thinks about abandoning the conspiracy entirely, because he doesn't want to be Lord Regent - but he knows you're too dangerous. He knows you'll have him silenced. So instead, he betrays you. He takes Emily hostage. Then it- it branches. In one, you don't know he's betrayed you, and he poisons your cup. But the others..." She frowned, closing her eyes as if fighting to remember. "I don't know. I can't remember the rest."

Martin's hand relaxed around her neck, and she heard his uniform rustle as he straightened. He stepped away. She opened her eyes to see him over by the window once more, staring out towards the lighthouse proper.

"Damn him," she heard him whisper.

"But it might already have been averted," she said, quickly, voice half-strangled by her fear. "It's only a possibility. I don't know what led to that point, I didn't see it. I don't know where that possibility branches from."

His hands were clasped at the small of his back, and as she watched they tightened around each other.

She glanced at the sky behind him. How much time had passed? Were they in position? If Daud and Corvo had already knocked out communication, shouldn't somebody have noticed yet?

But it was the perfect opening. She bit her lip and hoped they were ready.

"You could- try calling up to him. To set your mind at ease?" she offered, quietly.

"I'll make my own decisions," Martin said, and her hope fell. Her shoulders hunched forward. And then he spoke again. "... When I reclaim Emily, I want you entirely committed to her caretaking. Nothing else. She will rely on you, and on me, and between the two of us we'll make her realize that our care is the best possible option for her. Is that clear? I know I no longer have your uncle's life to hold over you, but I would like to think-"

"It's clear," she said.

At least she would get out of this alive, if Daud and Corvo and Geoff failed. She tried not to think about it.

Martin turned, and for a moment she thought he was considering another glass of wine. But then he moved to the intercom system, pressed a few keys.

"Overseer Thornton, when did we last receive communication from the marines?"

"One moment, sir, let me check," came the thin, quiet reply. Martin didn't look up to her, and simply waited with his hand on the control panel. "... Ah, five minutes ago, sir. Before that, three."

"Please check in again. All points of contact. Let's make sure Corvo hasn't slipped past our defences."

"Yes, sir."

"Call back as soon as you have the all-clear," Martin added, then keyed off the machine.

_He took the bait_.

A flare of calm passed from her chest and into her limbs, warring with the tension, the fear, and uncertainty. She was shaking again, unable to weather the roaring chaos of her emotions. She grasped at her numbness, tried to picture Ms. Brooklaine bleeding out, Lydia Boyle in her hospital bed, Esma Boyle limp in the car with her human hands marked by worry and stress. She had to overload herself far past her limit to shoot herself back into that blessed apathy. But that limit had moved, her tolerances expanded, her starting point far back from where it once had been.

The chaos remained.

She counted the seconds until Martin received word again. She watched him do his best not to pace, instead paging through papers scattered across his desk too quickly to be seeing anything at all. He knew better than to trust anybody without proof. She could see the panic growing in him.

The intercom crackled to life. "This is Overseer Thornton, reporting."

Martin reached out lightning-quick and keyed the microphone. "Report."

"We could only establish communication with the main command center up there, sir," Thornton said, his voice tight. "We recommended caution; they claimed it was a mechanical malfunction. How would you like us to proceed, sir?"

Martin's face grew stony, calcified in place. "Offer to send techs."

"Yes, sir."

Callista held her breath. Techs would discover that Corvo and Daud had broken the communications lines, had slaughtered Havelock's men. It wasn't enough of a disruption. Not enough mistrust.

A small, grim smile crept over Martin's face. "Send our men instead. I want Havelock's marines neutralized until we can determine that it's 'just' a mechanical malfunction. Clear a path; I will be going to retrieve the heir."

"Yes, sir."

Martin did a quick, silent inventory of his person, checking his holster and what she assumed was a layer of body armor beneath his jacket. Then he went to his desk, and pulled a familiar gun from the drawer.

"That's-"

"Yours, yes," Martin said. But he made no move to give it to her; instead he tucked it into his belt, safety firm in place. "It's a nice little piece, and I'm of the opinion that one should use everything at their disposal. Including you, so please stand up, Miss Curnow. You'll be accompanying me."

"I'm just going to be a liability," she said. "A target."

"Havelock isn't an idiot, just a fool. He'll recognize how useful you could be with Emily. It will make him hesitate. Stand up.

The intercom crackled to life again. "High Overseer Martin?"

Martin gave her one last withering look, then turned back to his desk and keyed the microphone. "Is our team moving?"

"Yes, sir. And, uh, Lord Pendleton is here."

Faintly, in the background, Callista could just make out his nasally voice as he shouted, "I demand to see him! He's got to give me an audience! No, I don't care about procedure!"

Martin closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Send him up. I'll join the team shortly. Let me know if they run into resistance."

"Yes, sir." The intercom crackled off.

His head bowed, Martin took a few slow breaths. She could see muscles twitching in his forehead, his jaw. And then he turned and strode quickly to the door, and flung it open just as Treavor Pendleton tried to throw it open himself. Behind him were two overseers.

"_You_," Pendleton hissed.

Martin looked placidly over the weedier man's shoulder. "All of you, dismissed," he said, nonchalantly, as if Pendleton's clear seething rage was just a mild snit. The overseers looked at each other, then retreated. Looking between Treavor and the skyline behind him, Martin sighed. "Now is not the time."

"Yes it _fucking_ is," Treavor snapped, taking a step towards Martin. His face was red and contorted with fury- and pain. "Wallace is dead!"

_What_? Had Geoff- or Corvo- it didn't make any sense. Callista frowned, twisting in her chair.

"Is he, now," Martin replied, cooly, and stepped past Treavor to close the door.

"Shot right through the skull! _And_ the heart! A third bullet hit my fucking Pandyssian-wood cabinets, and Gigi's terrified out of her mind, and it's your fault, isn't it?"

"There are a lot of people who might want you dead, Treavor," Martin said, circling his desk and grabbing up a fine cigarette case. He held it out to Treavor. "Have something to smoke, calm your nerves."

Treavor, though, was staring at Callista, narrow jaw working and brow furrowed.

"What's _she_ doing here? You told us she was-"

"I told _you_ that she was dead because you hardly needed to know the truth," Martin said, plucking out a cigarette for himself and wedging it between his lips. "You'd disengaged. Now come here. Miss Curnow, give the man your seat."

She stood up, eager to get out from between the two men. The air vibrated with tension as Treavor snatched the proffered cigarette and accepted the light that Martin offered. He sat down, shaking, and took a long drag.

Martin was more elegant, calmer. If she hadn't seen the flash of fury over his face before Treavor had arrived, she wouldn't have known to be afraid. "Would you like to take your rightful place back in our alliance?"

"I never left it."

"You abandoned us at the height of danger, before Corvo was neutralized."

"And just how sure are you that he _was_ neutralized? I heard your men-"

Martin waved a hand. "He lives. Miss Curnow brought the news just now. We'll take care of it. But you know- that means it could have been Corvo up in that sniper's nest."

Treavor glared at him. "I hardly think so, _Martin_."

"And why would you think I had any reason to wish Mr. Higgins dead?"

"Well, where is Ms. Brooklaine? And that Cecelia girl? Samuel Beechworth? Where did _they_ all go?"

"The first two- there was an unfortunate accident. You understand; they did know a great deal."

"As did Wallace," Treavor bit out.

Callista kept her mouth shut, all the while thinking about how she, too, had almost been before the firing squad. She did think a small hope, too, in Brooklaine's direction, that she had somehow survived her stomach wound. It didn't seem likely.

"But clearly it's angered you. Why would I want to drive away an ally?" Martin asked. The hand that held his cig hovered by his holster, the curling smoke masking how he was actually reaching for his gun.

_No_.

"Because you're a megalomaniac! You're a _menace_, Martin, and if you think you'll get away with killing Wallace-"

Martin smoothly dropped his cigarette and pulled out his gun, leveling it at Treavor's forehead in the exact same casual way he'd threatened Callista. "I need your cooperation, Treavor."

Pendleton froze in place, wide-eyed. "N-no," he said. "No, you need my _money_. Which you only get if I'm alive. And my votes. You can't-"

"It's true, I do lose some power if I kill you. That's why I had them shoot Wallace instead of you. Maybe I should have had them target the girl. You've been holed up with her for so long- yes, that would have been the better choice. Ever since your brothers died, you've been weak. You've been worse than useless. How many drinks would it take to get you to tell any and all comers what we planned, Treavor? Three men can't keep a secret, especially when one is drunk eighteen hours of the day." Martin shook his head. The corner of his mouth twitched towards a snarl. "Havelock is at least formidable. You- you're just pathetic."

"I helped you _build_ this conspiracy!" Treavor protested.

"Martin, we don't have time," she said, looking between them. "We should get moving." Treavor didn't have to die. He hadn't known what he was getting into, not really. She took a step forward. Her wrists were still bound, but maybe-

"You're right," Martin said. "We don't have time."

He pulled the trigger. The back of Treavor's head exploded outward in a shower of blood and bone and grey matter, and Callista flinched, turning away and shutting her eyes tight.

_No_.

She'd seen death. She'd seen bodies laid out for viewing before they were burned, and she'd watched as the life slipped out of her parents, her family members, in hospitals or in their homes. But she'd never seen a man's life snuffed out in an instant, and her stomach twisted, curdled.

Martin's hand closed on her elbow and she flinched.

"Let's get moving, then," he said. "One less viper in the nest to worry about. Let's go, Miss Curnow."

She opened her eyes and stepped over the mess on the floor.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16**_

The storm became a squall by the time they passed from the command deck to the lighthouse bridge approach. Martin had started with his hand around her elbow, but soon enough he let go of her and let her trail behind. They were not accompanied by any guard, and Martin didn't stop to call for one.

Gusts of wind threatened to thrust her into the railings as they climbed up spiralling metal stairs that switchbacked and ascended at a frightening incline. Her hands flexed, cold and numb, against the ziptie around her wrists.

And her mind returned again and again to Treavor Pendleton's sightless eyes, the perfect circle just off-center in the middle of his forehead, the spread of red and grey across the floor behind him. She lingered on one platform, staring off over the churning bay below. She hesitated halfway up a flight of steps, gaze riveted on the slick metal floor and how the rain washed it clean again and again.

The third time she slowed and fell behind, looking back at the office where Pendleton's body cooled, Martin rounded on her.

"Get moving, Miss Curnow. We have an appointment to keep."

She swallowed down her nausea and lifted her chin. "A minute to- adjust would be appreciated."

"We don't have a minute," he said, descending the steps between them and holding out his hand, reaching for her arm. "Especially not for childish squeamishness."

Rain whipped into her eyes, and her brow furrowed in pain and confusion. "Childish-?"

He rolled his eyes skyward for a moment and heaved a sigh, breath hissing from his clenched teeth. "You were far more cooperative before Pendleton. It was just a death. Get over it."

She said nothing.

Martin shook his head. "You were fucking Daud, and you're shocked to see a man die? Come now, Miss Curnow. Don't play the wilting flower in front of me."

"He never-"

"In front of you." Martin grabbed hold of her upper arm and dragged her up a few steps.

Coming to stand on the same level, she met his gaze. "Since I've known him. He said he put that all aside, after... her."

"And you believe him?" Martin asked with a quirked brow. "What about Lord Timothy Brisby, found dead at the docks the night you helped Esma Boyle out of the country? Hm?"

Her stomach twisted. "That wasn't him."

Martin didn't respond.

"That _wasn't him_," she repeated, louder this time. It had been Lizzy Stride. She hadn't seen the muzzleflash, but it had been Lizzy Stride, and if the ambulance hadn't arrived soon enough- that was an accident.

Martin stepped closer, lowered his voice. "And Lydia Boyle?"

Callista turned away. Martin snorted.

"You consort with killers these days, Miss Curnow. Better get used to it."

Lydia Boyle was alive, in Galvani's care. She repeated it to herself over and over, went over every detail Daud had shared with her. The thought that he had- invented all those details to spare her guilt was too much to consider. Would he have put so much effort into fabricating that lie for her? All those details - Galvani and his connection with the man and all hidden depths his words had just barely skimmed... no. It didn't make sense. And more importantly, he'd never given her a reason not to trust him.

Martin and Daud were different men, or had become different men. Callista took a deep breath.

"My goals are simple, Miss Curnow, and the sooner you understand and accept them, the easier our partnership will be. I'm not so fraught as Daud was, or as mad as Corvo. I want power, and control, and order." His lips curled and he let go of her arm, gaze locked on hers. "I've served as a soldier, made a living as a con and a killer- really, this is the next step in my professional evolution."

He took the stairs two at a time, and she struggled to keep up, wishing desperately that her hands weren't still bound behind her back.

"And now you have something of me," he said with a glance over his shoulder. "I'm offering up my vulnerable past. Does that make you more willing to cooperate? Like how you trusted Daud?"

"I already knew you were a criminal," she said, gasping as she climbed onto the same step as him. "I'm going to cooperate anyway."

He searched her face, then shrugged and turned from her, taking the last few steps.

The bridge was empty and silent as they crossed it, the wind coming faster, the rain driving harder against the metal grate they walked over. Martin took her arm again when she stumbled, and held her close to him as they walked. She could feel the tension in him, coiled and ready.

"There should be guards," he hissed in her ear, pulling his pistol from his holster. She wondered, if they hadn't stepped into the rain, if it would still be warm from Pendleton's death.

Muzzleflash cut through the squall, and Martin froze. Callista watched as more flashes ignited in the sheeting grey. Frantically, as the reports came, she tried to identify them as Corvo's or the Abbey's or the military's. Once, she might have been able to. Now she had to rely on Martin's curse and the way he broke into a run.

She followed, ducking behind cover when he did. Martin pushed something into his ear that she only belatedly realized was a comm unit. He keyed it on and shouted, "Report, damn it!"

She heard no response. Martin's expression hardened.

"Communication is down on our end, too," he said. "... Or there's nobody there to report."

"Oh," she said, and hunkered down behind the support strut he had his back to. "That's- not good." _Corvo_? _Daud_? Or had the plan worked too well, setting Havelock's men at the overseers' throats?

Which would be better?

Martin checked his gun, then looked over her, grimacing. "I don't trust you not to shoot me in the back, or run, if I cut your bonds," he said, trying to sound as casual as he had back in his command room. "So try to stay out of the line of fire."

"We're going in?" she asked, bones growing leaden, her heart catching in a frigid vice. This had always been a possibility, but it was supposed to be a last resort.

"Of course we're going in. I'm not turning tail and _running_." The last word was a sneer.

"But we don't know what we're going in _to_," she breathed, hands flexing against her bonds. All of Daud's lessons would be useless if she couldn't get her hands freed. What if a marine came after her? She didn't trust Martin to protect her, or to even help her if helping her would put him at risk.

Another quick report sounded.

"We're going into chaos," Martin said with a shrug, and her head jerked up. "Just like in Morley. Come on, Miss Curnow - keep your head down and we'll come out the other side victorious." His thoughts weren't on her anymore; she could see it in the distant gaze in his eyes, the tightness of the muscles in his jaw and around his mouth. He was calculating their odds of survival. He was realizing that she was the lesser threat.

She was suddenly very grateful - and very frightened - that he hadn't simply locked her in the command room with Pendleton's corpse. It would have been easier for him, and safer for her. But this way, she could keep an eye on him. This way, she'd be there if Daud needed her to be, if _Emily_ needed her to be.

And she didn't have to see Pendleton's rapidly cooling body.

Martin started moving again, and she followed, wishing that her hands were at least bound before her. Wishing did nothing, except distract her as the rain plastered her hair to her forehead, blinded her, slicked the steps they climbed to the point that the anti-slip measures in place did next to nothing. Water sheeted off rooftops of checkpoints and poured down the railings. Beneath them, the waves danced in circular patterns, forming Corvo's whirlpool.

They reached the first marine checkpoint to find only bodies. Overseers and soldiers littered the walkways, silent and staring. The rain had washed all but a few dark stains of blood away. Martin kicked open the door to the sheltered communication station and waved her inside. She blinked rapidly in the dry air, shaking her head to clear her vision, as Martin made his way to a bank of monitors.

The screens lit up shockingly bright as he keyed in a code. There was the bridge, empty except for gusts of rain. There were the walls by the main landing, where she had come in, still manned - but thinly. And then there were three screens filled with streaming video of pitched battle. In some, overseers hunkered down behind what cover they could find while the marines pushed forward. In others, the overseers pressed the attack. Havelock and Emily were nowhere to be seen.

In one screen, there were only bodies.

Martin swore. Another screen had remained black, save for a prompt for a password. Martin tried several combinations as she watched. None worked.

"_Fuck_," he snarled as he pushed away from the monitors.

"What-"

"That's the camera on Emily's room, on Havelock's camp. He's got it locked down. _Damn him_." Martin looked around the room wildly, panic shining in his eyes. He looked like a trapped, cornered beast, about to be gunned down. Violent, unpredictable, frightening.

Even clever Martin didn't seem ready to suspect that a single man, or two, could have created such chaos. Her false prophecy must have hung heavy in his mind. He finally snatched up a corded phone from the main desk and punched in another sequence.

Somebody must have picked up.

"What the _fuck_ is going on out there, Farley?" he spat.

Callista lifted her head, watched him closely.

"A deal! And did that deal include screwing me over?" He grin was sharp and wicked and cruel. "You didn't think I'd notice you'd cut the communication lines before it was too late? What- do you have an air lift coming in to get you and the girl out, because don't think for a _second_ you can get twenty feet away from here without me putting a bullet in you like I did that weasel Pendleton!"

Havelock must have interrupted. Martin shook his head, slowly, expression darkening. When he spoke again, his voice was cold.

"Have yours stand down first. This instant."

Martin fell silent again. His gaze flicked to his gun, to the monitors. One of the battles was winding down. She stared at it, and saw a shadowy figure flash across the screen. Her breath caught.

She looked up to see him focused on the windows again. He bared his teeth at the air. "Corvo's on his way. He'll slaughter us _both_."

Callista stole another glance at the monitor. There was no sign of life.

Martin hissed. "I told you poison wouldn't work on a Marked man!"

He looked up and caught her gaze, held it as he said, calmly, "I am _perfectly_ aware of what is going on here, Farley. You don't want a leash. I get it. But that's the bargain, that's the price for the girl, and if you do not surrender this instant-"

Martin stopped speaking, mouth open a fraction of an inch. Silence reigned. And then he slammed down the phone and stood, breathing hard, hands planted on the desk.

On another monitor, there was an explosion of some kind - not from any weapon on either side. In the distance, she heard a boom, and felt the scaffolding rock.

"_Chance_," Martin muttered to himself, under his breath. She barely caught the words. And then he straightened and dusted off his uniform.

"Call down to the main defenses," she suggested. "Get back-up."

"We don't have time to wait for them. If Havelock gets Emily out of here-"

"You can still run," she said. "Retreat. Strategically."

She didn't know if it was a calculated risk to get him to move inexorably forward out of spite, or a desperate plea to get herself out of the crossfire. She held her breath. Every bone in her body screamed that Teague Martin cared first and foremost about himself and his life - and about power. When those sat in opposition to one another, she couldn't imagine which way he would jump.

From his ragged breathing, she imagined he didn't know, either.

"We go forward," he said at last. "There's nowhere to go but forward." He lifted his gaze to her.

"We go forward," she agreed, quietly.

He approached her, circled behind her, and reached for her bonds. She heard the click of the lock on a folding knife, and felt the metal between her and the plastic. The plastic gave easily. Then his hands went to her throat where he opened the metal ring and pulled it away from her flesh.

"The checkpoints can be reprogrammed to see a given IFF marker as either _allow_ or _destroy_," he explained, absently. "There's no way to know what Havelock's set the gates in his territory to. I'll have to shut them down."

She rubbed at her throat, turned to watch him. He was checking cabinets, looking for other weapons he might need. He slung a rifle over his shoulder, then turned to her and held out her pistol.

"You're going in in front of me," he said. "So don't get any stupid ideas. If you want to kill me, you do it after today, or you don't get to see after today."

"We go forward," she repeated. "I want to live, not fight." Her cold, numb fingers closed around the gun.

He searched her face for something, then nodded and led the way out of the checkpoint booth.

The first gate they reached didn't need to be shut down; it already stood silent and empty. The second one was the same, a cold, unsettling monument of industry. Charred bodies lay nearby. She saw more death in the ascent to the third and final gate than she had in all the years prior, saw more bodies spread at her feet than she could have imagined.

Not all of them had died of bullet wounds. She didn't point out to Martin the corpses with ragged wounds across their throats. He was too focused on the seething rage of his betrayal to notice.

As they climbed the stairs towards the third gate, bent against the howling wind and the sheeting rain, they saw the electric arcing glow of another gate surge. It grew bright, brighter still, until there was another low boom, and it went dark as well.

"My men must be up there," he said, as much a prayer as a statement, and quickened his pace. She followed, shivering and numb.

They found six more bodies, only two of them overseers. They still wore their masks, but blood seeped from beneath them, sliding out between metal and strap and fabric. With a quick look to either side, Martin growled, "Check their belts. You're looking for a small box with a speaker attached to it."

"What is it?" she asked as she knelt, hunching her shoulder against a sudden crash of rainwater sluicing off the gate. Her hands shook as she set down her gun and reached for the first motionless form.

"It's black and it's important. I need at least one, preferably two." The way his hand shifted on the butt of his rifle made her skin crawl and her heart seize, and she focused only on the dead man's belt, touching only leather and cotton and not the once-living thing beneath it all.

"Nothing," she said.

"Then check the other one. And take one of their belts for yourself, I don't want you struggling not to trip if we walk into another fight."

"I'm not-"

"_Do it_, Miss Curnow."

She didn't take the first man's belt, but when she found the box on the second one's belt, she didn't have any excuses. She focused not on the gloved hands or the rictus-grin mask, but on the frustration of cold water sliding under the loose waistband of her uniform pants and the awkward weight of the _thing_ wrapped in the belt below her, and tugged it loose.

Martin took the box from her and slipped it into his own belt, next to a matching piece of equipment. She cinched her new one around her waist. They left the gate behind. Callista let the rain pound against the nape of her neck, and thought only of the old whalers out at sea, their hands red with whales' blood, their humanity washed away with every howl and scream.

She'd been certain she was nearing the same empty, changed spot, crossing into it without any hope of retreat. Now she saw that she hadn't yet reached that marker.

But it was there, waiting.

"What is he _doing_?" Martin asked as they came within sight of the lighthouse proper. "He should be shooting down at us. I don't hear any damn boat or helicopter, he can't be hoping to get out without a fight."

Callista took a shaking breath, hoping it was only Daud and Corvo clearing a path. But they'd backed Havelock into a corner as much as they'd penned in Martin. Was he panicking? Had he barricaded the way up? Would he drop Emily into the surf below?

Martin lingered at the bottom of the ascent for a moment longer.

And then he shouldered open the door. It gave easily. Martin grew more tense, and Callista followed with a growing surge of unease.

It was silent inside the lighthouse. Outside, rain pounded against reinforced windows and steel walls, but inside, there was only the hum of fluorescent lights and climate control. Martin's booted footsteps were too loud as they crossed the open entryway, with its displays of grandeur.

"Burrows," Martin whispered as they ducked into the cover of a large statue of Jessamine Kaldwin, "couldn't make up his mind. He wanted an emblem of his power. So he built an estate surrounded by metal and guns. Just like him." His lips curled, mirthlessly.

Callista only nodded.

"This way. Hopefully Emily's where Havelock _should_ have left her," he said. "We secure her, then find him."

"Right," she said, heart beating double-time in her chest. When they found Emily- _if_ they found Emily-

Martin turned down a hallway that curved and rose five steps up as they went. The floor was thickly carpeted. He stayed low, and she mimicked him as they passed through an empty dining room, the table littered with maps and glasses.

She watched his face; his gaze was quick and appraising, his jaw set.

They reached a door, and he slid a key from his pocket. He considered a moment, then rapped his knuckles on the door.

"Go away!" Emily shouted, muffled by the reinforced door.

Corvo hadn't reached her yet, then.

"There, conscious and alone," Martin murmured, half to himself. Then he looked up at her and held out the key. "Go in to her, Miss Curnow. You're more useful keeping her calm and safe than you are in a firefight."

She took a shuddering breath, then reached forward and took the key, fighting hard not to snatch it from him. She slotted the key into the latch.

"Emily?" she said, pressing her cheek and free hand to the wood. "Emily, it's Callista."

There was no response.

"Emily, I'm going to open the door now. I'm going to keep you safe."

Again, there was only the muffled sound of rain on distant windows.

She looked to Martin. He nodded to her, then inclined his head, waiting.

Callista inhaled slowly. Emily didn't deserve this, didn't deserve being confronted by her wearing Overseer blues, ordered around by Martin, in a lighthouse dominated by a statue of her mother and all the trappings of war. But Callista was resigned; she was never the one to give Emily what she needed.

She opened the door.

A book cracked into the doorframe, and she shouted and stumbled back, hand leaving the latch. Emily reached for another.

"Go _away_! Emily screamed, voice shrill, tears in her eyes. "You're supposed to be _dead_! You never _listen_! Go away!"

The next book arced towards her, and Callista barely managed to knock it down with a swipe of her arm. It fell cover-up onto the floor.

It was a biography of Jessamine Kaldwin.

"Stop!" Martin barked, but Emily only reached for another heavy tome. Callista grabbed at the door and shouldered it shut. The book smacked into the door at the level of her head.

She heaved for breath. "Emily," she said, just loud enough for her voice to carry through the wood, "please stop throwing things. If you cooperate-"

"I'm _done_ cooperating! I'm your _Empress_!" Another crack sounded against the door, followed by another. Callista looked frantically back at Martin, whose expression was growing dark and red with rage.

"If she won't cooperate," Martin said, softly, "then we leave her here until she's spent herself. Lock the door."

Callista reached for the key again.

Martin cleared his throat and stepped close, penning Callista in with his body as he leaned into the door. "Miss Kaldwin," he said, "you're in a dangerous situation and I've come to get you out of it."

"Leave me _alone_! I don't like _you_, either!"

"What is best is not always what is enjoyable, Miss Kaldwin. But if you demand to be left alone, you will be."

Callista clicked the lock shut, eyes burning. How far had she fallen from her pure desire to comfort the girl, to keep her safe? She was a mess of selfish desires, and they had brought her to this: another book slamming into the door, and her retreating. Even Daud had been able to stand strong through Emily's anger and hurt.

"Come on," Martin said. "We need to find Havelock before he notices all this noise." He took her upper arm and hauled her away from the door, back the way they had come.

They were in the dining room proper when Callista heard Emily's voice, faint and muffled.

"Wait! Wait, Callista! Callista, come back, _please_!"

She froze.

"We don't have time. She had her chance," Martin growled, dragging her out of earshot. Callista stumbled after him as they made their way to the great central staircase.

They were halfway up the first flight when they heard Havelock shout. It was wordless, full of rage, and Martin quickened his pace, climbing with his knees bent and his rifle braced ready at his shoulder. There was a gunshot, another wordless shout. Something crashed hard into the floor. Martin fell into a sprint and Callista fell behind as his longer legs and better training outpaced her.

He disappeared into a door on the third floor just as the howling of the storm boomed into the open height of the lighthouse. Callista reached the landing just in time to see Corvo's silhouette standing in an open doorway.

Havelock was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear his screams fading as he fell down, down, down into a whirlpool she knew was raging far below.

There was no sign of Daud.

There was no sign of Martin, either, until his gun cracked and Corvo's shadow flickered and appeared halfway across the room. Callista instinctively raised her own gun but her finger trembled, too weak to pull the trigger. The storm howled, and she thought she saw Corvo reach Martin, thought she saw Martin twist and slam the butt of his rifle into Corvo's jaw. Corvo disappeared.

"Martin!" Callista hissed, and moved to join him behind the pillar he was using as cover. He gasped for breath, shaking, and she could see the sleeve of his jacket gaping and sagging where Corvo's knife had caught him. Her heart hammered. Who was the enemy? Did she level her gun at Martin's head, now that Havelock was gone, or did she wait for Corvo to strike? Did she run? Did she go back to Emily? Did she-

Something clattered against the floor. It was the little black box she'd found. From its tiny speaker, an odd, plinkity-plonking sound echoed, weak against the noise of the squall.

Another clatter. The strange not-music grew louder. Something in her, some memory in her bones of what it had been to have a leviathan walk inside of her, shuddered and fell silent. Her steps slowed.

Martin reached for her, and she faltered just long enough that he got an arm around her and hauled her against his chest. He let his rifle fall back on its strap around his shoulder, and yanked his pistol from its holster and fitted it against her temple with a quiet murmur of, "Don't move."

Callista went still, her eyes wide. "But he wants me _dead_, Martin," she breathed.

"Does he? Because he ignored you and went straight for me," he responded, then shouted, "Stop hiding, Corvo!" before she could come up with a response beyond sinking dread.

The shadows peeled away from Corvo and he staggered, snarling, hands over his ears. He glared at Martin, at Callista, and dropped to one knee. His back and chest heaved in an uneven rhythm.

"We have the girl, you know," Martin said. "It'd be easier if you stopped fighting."

"Check again," Corvo gritted. "She's safe now."

"Bullshit. I saw her three minutes ago. Not even. The door is _locked_." He shifted his aim, swinging it to Corvo. A single shot, and the man would be dead, skull punched open. Callista tried to pull away from Martin, but her first faltering move lacked the conviction to break his hold. His arm tightened and he slammed his knee into the back of hers. She grunted and tried not to fall.

"If you _cooperate_, Emily gets to stay with Callista. You remember Callista? She was Emily's only source of comfort all these long months. Do you want this woman's death on your hands, just like Jessamine's? How will Emily react, do you think?" She could hear the feral grin twisting Martin's lips.

"And maybe, if I'm feeling _very_ generous, I'll take you to an Abbey cell and let you see her on Fugue Feast days. One happy family."

Corvo tried to stand again, his Marked hand curling into a fist. There was a brief flare of unnatural colors- and then the grey of the storm swallowed it up again. Corvo dropped back down to his knee.

"It won't work," Martin said. "The Outsider doesn't have many converts these days, but we still know how to put them down like dogs. Throw your weapons away, Corvo, and surrender."

Corvo's brow twitched and contorted as he bared his gritted teeth. Callista sucked in a ragged breath.

As she watched, he pulled a gun from his hip and aimed it, shaking, at the both of them. "I can still shoot you," he said, and he sounded detached, calm. Empty. Numb. A butcher drenched in so much blood that he couldn't recognize the rain anymore. "I'll kill the both of you. Rip out your hearts. Make your bones into offerings. You're a dead man, Teague Martin."

There was the slight scuff of footsteps in the hall, almost eaten up by the howling winds. Callista jerked and Martin turned, minutely.

Daud emerged from the shadows, his own face grim and grey and sickly with the dysphonic tones coming from the two boxes on the floor. His gun was pointed straight at Corvo, and he advanced obliquely, gaze flicking between Corvo and Martin and Callista. Soon he was too close to miss Corvo - and too far behind him for Corvo to take out everybody at once.

"No," Daud said. "You will _not_ kill her. Not while I live."

"I can take care of that, too," Corvo hissed, shoulders hunching forward.

Martin barked out a laugh, and his grip on Callista tightened, shifted so that he could get a hand around her throat. "You little _bitch_," he said, incredulous. "I just keep underestimating you, don't I? How many other lies were there?"

"Havelock didn't cut those communication lines," she breathed, and his grip tightened even more, her bones and joints creaking in protest. But she could move her arm now, and she quietly slipped her fingers around her gun, hand shaking.

Martin kept his sight trained on Corvo - and behind him, Daud. She could almost hear his brain working over all the possibilities he could imagine, wishing he had the Outsider at his mercy so that he could demand which one was the _correct_ one, the one that would lead to him winning. Kill the hostage he had, and get revenge? Kill Daud, and risk Corvo getting off a shot? Kill Corvo, and have Daud to contend with?

Lightning split the sky beyond the still-open door, and the few dim lights surged and went out in brilliant flashes.

Callista yanked her gun free to her belt and shoved it up beneath Martin's jaw. Her finger went to the trigger. She closed her eyes and tried to pull.

She couldn't move.

She let out a broken sob and tried again, but her body refused to obey her. Martin's hand on her throat tightened.

He dropped his pistol with a sharp clatter, and he took her hand, curling his finger around hers.

"I'm not going to run," he said, raggedly. "I go _forward_. Under my own power."

He slammed her finger down on the trigger and her world was reduced to the deafening crack of igniting power, of shattering bone, of the white-hot flame that spread across her cheek and the sharp pain that ricocheted down her arm. Blood spattered over her nose and lips, stung at her eyes. Martin crumpled, and though his grip on her relaxed to nothing, she went down with him, collapsing onto the warm, limp mass of him, into the spreading pool of his blood.

The wind was the only sound in the room above the ringing of her ears and the throbbing of her pulse.

Martin's chest didn't move.

She refused to open her eyes when she began to hear the other sounds: drips of brain matter down the wall and onto the floor, footsteps approaching. Her hand still clutched her pistol desperately, numbly. It was her only anchor, and the world was spinning.

"Callista?" Daud murmured, close enough that she could hear. His gloved hands settled over her bare ones, and he gingerly coaxed her finger from the trigger. He guided her up onto shaking legs, away from Martin's corpse. He sat her down again somewhere, with a wall against her back. She curled her arms around herself, and she was alone again with her breathing.

The next voice that pierced the fog was Corvo's. "Turn those damn things _off_."

"Gladly," Daud responded, and there was a crack of crushed plastic. The discordant noise that had become part of her heartbeat cut off abruptly. Startled, she opened her eyes at last.

Corvo stood across the room from Daud, scrubbing a hand over his jaw and mouth. "It's done, then," he rasped.

"It's done," Daud agreed, side-stepping the body that had once been Martin.

Corvo grunted and didn't say anything else. Daud straightened his suit jacket and surveyed the room.

"Emily's safe. Scared, but safe," Daud said to him. "I found her locked in the room furthest from all of this. The window latch is easier than the door; go in that way."

Callista watched as Corvo considered his gun, still held in one hand. And she watched as he aimed it at Daud.

Daud didn't flinch. He looked back at Corvo with unwavering focus.

"Still determined?" Daud asked. "Do you still need my death so you can wipe everything clean, Corvo?"

"No," Callista said, but it was little more than a whisper. Panic cut through the numbness, the exhaustion, and she tried to stand. She slipped on the rain-slicked floor, and barely caught herself before crashing down again. "_No_."

Corvo said nothing.

"Then do it," Daud said, spreading his arms. "I deserve it, don't I?"

_No, no, he doesn't_, she thought when her lips were too heavy to make sound. _No, he doesn't deserve to die. He protected Emily. He helped save her. He was just a weapon, _**_I_**_ was just a weapon, Martin used me to kill himself, Burrows used Daud to kill Jessamine, he doesn't deserve to-_

Her world contracted to the faint click of the hammer of Corvo's gun striking the firing pin and the flash of light as the bullet leapt into the air. Her bones were lead, her heart was lead, and her breathing stopped as, behind her, Daud cried out in wordless pain.

Another body thudded against the fine Pandyssian-wood floors.

Corvo looked at her only briefly, his dead gaze sliding cold and wet over her. "Geoff's men are going to be here in under twenty minutes," he said. "You can wait for him with me and Emily down by the dock."

Something moved, shifting against the floor, dragging, writhing.

"Or," Corvo said, "you can stay with him. I'd suggest finding a way off this rock if you want him to do anything besides die or spend the rest of his life in Coldridge."

_His life_.

She turned just as Daud laughed, bitterly and through gritted teeth. One of his hands hovered uncertainly by his knee, which was a mass of blood and torn fabric and skin and bone. His laughter turned to shuddering, gasping breaths of pain, and Callista shoved herself up onto her hands and knees. She crawled towards him.

Daud grimaced and shook his head.

"Go with him," he managed.

"You'll be Emily's primary caretaker for as long as she needs you," Corvo said. "And Geoff will assist in restructuring the police force. You'll both be safe. I don't want any of- _this_ shit to touch her ever again." He looked around the room, motioned to the emblems of Burrows' power, of Havelock's.

"I don't want that," she said, so softly that she only knew she spoke from the ragged pain in her throat. She pulled herself one foot along the floor, then another. Her cheek throbbed. Martin's blood cooled rapidly on her skin. Her mind ached along shattered, jagged paths where lives had been before. There were too many new holes, too many pits, pits that had reaching, grasping hands that threatened to catch her and drag her down. Daud was quickly sinking into one of them. She reached him and reached for him, taking his other hand, the one not clutching his thigh as if it would stop the pain.

Daud met her gaze, and shook his head. "_Go_. Get your damn life back. I'm not- taking it from you again."

"You've got ten seconds to decide, Callista Curnow," Corvo said. "If you stay with him, I'll kill you the next time you come within a city's length of Emily."

But he didn't move to drag her away, and that was something. She had a choice.

Daud's face was growing grey and pale and she squeezed his hand, stared at his wound. She shook her head. "I'm staying with him."

Corvo said nothing. His footsteps disappeared. Somewhere, a door closed.

"He was supposed to kill me," Daud said, and she kissed him with a low, pained whine. His unbloodied hand came up to touch her shoulder, lightly, and then curl into her hair with shaking force. He crushed her against him, then pressed fevered, trembling kisses to her nose and forehead. "You should have _gone_."

"Emily was never mine," Callista said, even as she pulled away and reached for the knife in Daud's pocket. She cut off a ragged strip of fabric from near the hem of her pants, and wrapped it over the bleeding mess of his knee, cinching it tight just above the wound. She worked mechanically, trembling with something between horror and euphoria and relief. When she knotted the fabric, she reached to cut another strip.

_It's over_. She smiled.

Daud hissed in pain as her hands worked, then gasped out, "So you'll give her to _him_?"

She lifted her head a fraction of an inch. "If I went with him," she said, struggling to remember what order words went in, "I'd be trapped. I'd have to protect Emily. Emily would still hate me. I could never leave. I could never step out of line. I wouldn't be _safe_. I'd be trading one prison for another."

"One killer for another."

A broken half-laugh slipped from her, and she pulled her hands away from him. They came away wet with blood, and she stared at them.

"I don't want you to go to Coldridge," she whispered.

Daud didn't say anything for a long moment, and Callista felt herself being dragged into one of the deep holes with him. The island was surrounded by stormy waters. The only way off was likely through Corvo, to wherever the escape boats were kept, and she knew she couldn't pilot them in this weather. Her uncle's people, the good men and women left in Dunwall, would be here soon with dogs and guns and barricades.

"I don't want you to go to Coldridge," she repeated.

"Then get me down to the base of the bridge, on the other side," Daud said.

She looked up. "What?"

"Samuel Beechworth. He's waiting there."

"For-"

"Me. You. In case things went wrong with Corvo, he said." He smiled, grimly. "Never thought we'd have a way out. That I'd have a way out. _Fuck_." He grimaced and gripped his leg hard. "Fucking- get my phone out. Left pocket. Call Dr. Galvani, tell him he has a new patient."

"I'll call him on the boat," she said, and tried to slip one of his arms over her shoulders, tried to stand. He was heavy. Her legs threatened to buckle where Martin had struck her. Her weakness crashed back into her, and she let out a half-hearted sob and sagged back to the floor, leaning against Daud.

His arm curled around her.

"You were incredible," he murmured.

She looked up. "I killed a man."

"He used you to kill himself," Daud corrected. "Or you killed a man. Whichever you can live with."

"Get up," she said, helplessly, and he laughed.

"I'll try. I'll try for you. Count of three?"

She nodded, and let him count. On three, she pushed upwards with all her might. They managed. Slowly, she led him towards the door. Slowly, he stumbled forward, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The stairs were hard. Three flights, and they nearly fell five times. Daud groaned and hissed and did his best to bite down on every sign of pain, but she could feel it radiating through him. She made herself think of that pain, and her relief, and the life in his bones and blood, and she bore up beneath him, step by step. The ringing in her ears died away to nothing and the burning in her cheek faded to a dull, distant ache.

They reached the first floor and pushed out into the rain that was growing lighter by degrees. The wind was still cold, and she huddled against him even as she took his weight, afraid of the moment when his body would grow as chill as the air around them. It seemed too real, too near, and her arm around his waist tightened.

Daud slowed. She let him. He reached for the railing and sagged against it, catching his breath.

"... There's still time," he said at last, softly. He didn't meet her eyes. "Your uncle-"

She lifted her head and looked up at him, feeling hollow. Her lips curled in the memory of a smile. "Can come visit, wherever we end up," she said. "... If he wants to."

"And if he doesn't want to?" He stared at her, pleading, desperate. "Don't do this because you think you owe me. Or because you think- you think it's a way out."

She shook her head. "You're _alive_," she said, and the weight of that fact surprised her. Her hollow chest threatened to crumple beneath it, and she had to take a deep breath as she watched him frown.

"For now," he said, quietly. "Not forever."

She took another deep breath and helped him lean against a railing. She knelt to fix the makeshift bandage on his knee. "... Everybody I've ever been close to has died," she said as she worked. "Everybody except you and Geoff. But when I'm with you- I feel like you'll never die. You're outside of death. On the other side of it. It feels- safe."

He touched a trembling, gloved hand to her cheek. The leather was sticky with blood.

"I'm still going to die," he murmured.

"I know," she said, smiling. "But not today. And until you do- I want-"

She trailed off. In some ways, he _was_ a way out. He was the least terrifying option she had left. But he also was the only option she wanted instead of fearing, instead of judging it _alright_ by virtue of the horror of the others. And he hadn't argued for one moment when she said Geoff could come visit. He was willing to leave that door open, even though it might one day be a threat.

She wanted to go with him, to escape with him, to put her life back together with him, and as she looked at his scarred and weathered face and took his gloved hand in hers, she hoped he could see that.

"I understand," he murmured, words almost swallowed up by the storm as he tried, weakly, to pull her to her feet.

Relief curled up inside of her and began working away at the lead in her belly. She let out a long, shaking breath and stood.

"Beechworth is waiting for us," she reminded him. "And Galvani. You'll live, and I'll live."

He nodded, and held out his arm. She slipped beneath it, and propped him up as they took their first stumbling steps across the bridge.

Beneath them, the whirlpool died away; in the distance, two police ships approached the lighthouse.

In the belly of a borrowed boat, they disappeared.

* * *

Dr. Galvani emerged from the makeshift operating theater in his sprawling Clavering Boulevard house at a leisurely pace, already out of his scrubs and washed down. Callista staggered to her feet, abandoning the relative comfort of the plush armchair he'd offered to her hours ago. She hadn't moved since, and her pinprick-heavy legs nearly gave from under her.

"He'll live," Galvani said. "Just like I said he would when we started."

Callista closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "And his leg?"

"He can keep it, if the wound doesn't get infected. The bullet passed clean through the joint. I removed the bone fragments and bits of cloth, and stabilized it all for healing. The knee will be weak, but usable, and with physical therapy he should only need a cane on bad weather days."

"Can I- see him?"

"Not yet. Wait until he wakes up. Anaesthesia outside of a hospital can have... interesting side effects." He smiled only faintly, distantly. "Sit down, Miss- Curnow, was it?"

She sank back into the chair with a weak nod.

"You haven't eaten."

"I don't want to eat."

"You'll want to before you leave the country. I've made my calls. You'll be leaving in five hours, for Serkonos." His features flickered towards a scowl. "After this-"

"Your debt is repaid. Of course. Daud won't be back in Dunwall."

_Serkonos_. She'd never thought of going there, but it made sense. Daud had history there, she supposed. And it would be warm and bright and so different from Gristol's dull grey.

He looked her over. "... What's your relation to him?" he asked. "You don't seem like one of his thugs."

"I'm- not." Her hand went to the pad of gauze that one of his household employees - all trained nurses, he'd said - had used to bandage up the powder burn streaking her right jaw and cheek. They'd given her a dry robe to change into, as well, while they ran her borrowed clothing through the dryer. That clothing sat next to her, folded, untouched. "It's complicated."

"But you will be going with him?"

She nodded.

"Good. I booked the right number of seats." He sighed. "Eat your meal, Miss Curnow, and get changed. I'll have somebody let you know when he's awake and ready to talk."

He turned to go, but before he moved more than a few steps away, she swallowed and asked, "And how is Lydia Boyle?" She'd thought of the woman often while sitting in the waiting room, though maybe not often enough. Her mouth tasted of ash.

Galvani stilled. "Who?"

She was too tired to flinch or doubt, and instead she slid forward to the edge of her chair. "The woman Daud sent you, she had lost her right arm. Is she- still here?"

A month ago, she would have assumed the worst, that Lydia Boyle had never been there at all. Now she only watched Galvani's back, wondering if she'd get an answer or an evasion.

"She was moved to a safer facility two nights ago," Galvani said at last, glancing back at her. "Outside of the city. The nurses tell me that she picked it out of her few options based on its therapeutic music program. Is that all, Miss Curnow?"

Callista sat back, a small, fragile smile touching her lips. She'd been right to trust Daud; Lydia Boyle was safe, and hopefully Esma was already with her daughter. They had done good work.

"That's all," she said.

He left her alone in the sumptuous waiting room, and as he walked away, he slipped a piece of paper from his pocket. _Sokolov's last known location_, Daud had told her, _and instructions to contact Corvo_. _Sokolov is Galvani's hero. It'll be our ticket out of here_.

It had worked.

They were almost out.

But she still could hear the gunshot, and every few minutes, her thoughts would go to Martin, would go to the throbbing in her cheek, would go to the sound of Emily's voice, begging her to come back.

_We are selfish creatures, _she thought to herself._ We are selfish creatures_. If she didn't pull back now, if she rushed to Emily's aid again, she would never be free. And Emily- Emily would likely always hate her, or at least never trust her, and she had to tell herself, over and over, that she could never be Jessamine - and that she didn't want to be.

They had done good work whenever they could. It would be enough.

Callista made herself stand and pick up her clothing, carry it to the nearby bathroom and change. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and it made her stop in place. Her hair was still damp, still dirty, pulled back from her face. Her cheeks and eyes looked hollow, her gaze distant. Carefully, she lifted a hand to her throat and felt for her pulse. She almost cried with relief when she felt it pounding there.

_We are alive. We move forward_.

She cinched the laundered uniform pants around her waist with a dead man's belt, her trigger finger curled tight to her palm the whole time. She didn't want anybody else to use it, ever again, and there had been a moment, when Daud wasn't looking, where she'd almost asked Galvani to amputate it. She'd cast the thought aside immediately as panic and grieving, and now it was only a faint echo.

But she would need time, and space. She'd need to move to another place, far away from all the new spots of grief, the ones that she hoped wouldn't follow her across the water. She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror again.

She wasn't surprised to find the Outsider watching her, leaning against the glass wall of the shower.

_I almost didn't see that possibility,_ his voice murmured, waves lapping against the shore in her ear. _You're not the same as you were before, Callista Curnow. You've been on all sides now: dying, grieving, death-giving. What will you do now? Where will you go? What will you become? I see a future where_-

She ignored him and walked out of the room. His voice died away.

She sat in her chair and ate her meal, and when the nurse came out to tell her that Daud was awake, she set down the half-empty tray and walked at a normal pace. He was sitting up in a clean hospital bed, trying to pull on his button-up, also freshly laundered. He'd abandoned his undershirt, which lay crumpled on the floor beside him. When he heard her footsteps, he looked up, and for a moment there was confusion in his eyes, then embarrassment, and finally relief.

"Galvani said you'll keep the leg," she said, coming over to the side of the bed and helping him shrug into his shirt. "And that you should even be able to put weight on it most days, once it's healed. Corvo did a poor job of crippling you."

"He was very kind, yes," Daud snorted. He fumbled with his buttons until she pushed his hands out of the way and went to work, button after button. When she'd reached the last, he caught her face in both hands and drew her up to look at him.

"You can still go. At any point," he said, softly, his voice a rasping rumble in his chest. "I want you to know that. Just because you made _a_ choice, doesn't mean..."

She shook her head, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I have a- a house," Daud said, then cleared his throat. "In Serkonos. If Martin didn't track the money. It was to- retire to, one day. We can go there. I told Galvani-"

"I know, he already booked the tickets for us." She reached for his hand. "A house?"

"An old vineyard with a little cottage. I hid it well, so none of my old enemies could ever find it. It should still be there. If... you want it." His fingers curled around hers, tentatively. He wasn't wearing his gloves anymore, and she trailed her thumb over the inert black lines tracing the back of his hand.

_A vineyard in Serkonos_.

Nothing like Dunwall at all.

"It sounds nice," she said, and meant it. She was smiling; she could feel the tightness of her skin below her bandages, and she could feel the surge of relief, too.

"It's just a vineyard in Serkonos," he cautioned. "And we'll have to repair the house quite a bit. It's nothing special."

"It's- moving forward," she said, gazing at him. "It's being selfish, and alive, and it will be quiet, and it won't be Dunwall. I want that." She let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for a long time. "Very badly."

"I want you to come with me," he murmured, and then his lips quirked in a small smirk and he ducked his head. "... Very badly."

"There are," she said, "thousands of possibilities, I suppose." She'd seen none when the Outsider whispered to her, and for that she was grateful. She smiled again. "I like this one."


	17. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

The lane led from the small town, out past an old schoolhouse, and finally around a picturesque sort of hill until it spat Geoff Curnow out about five hundred feet from a rundown cottage. The cottage backed onto fifty acres of rolling vineyard, about three quarters of which was fallow. The rest was covered in neat rows of bright green grape vines which were likely just beginning to flower.

He hesitated, staring at the cottage. Its roof was newly repaired, and he could see lumber set out nearby, likely to begin fixing up the walls and floor. The people he'd spoken to in the next town over hadn't had much to say about its occupants, just that they were quiet people who had a little bit of money, and that the man walked with a limp and a cane.

It was all the confirmation he'd needed. A letter had arrived at his old apartment two months ago, but it had taken a few weeks to find its way to him. In it, Callista had apologized for leaving, but expressed the desire that he might come to visit someday. He hadn't known what to feel, and he wouldn't have even trusted it except that it was written in a code they had developed together years ago. _Their_ code. All he had known for certain was that he couldn't tell Corvo about it.

And Corvo still didn't know. As far as he was concerned, Geoff was on a brief sabbatical, getting some sun and visiting a few contacts in the Serkonan government and military on behalf of their little Empress. In two days, he'd have to catch a plane back to Dunwall to keep overseeing the reconstruction and demilitarization of the city. Corvo would likely meet him at the airport, and there was a chance that they'd be going out for dinner as a part of Corvo's continued efforts at adjusting to normal life again. And all of that was true.

But what was more true was that Callista was inside that cottage with the man who had killed Emily Kaldwin's mother, who had kidnapped Callista and held her hostage for over a month, and who had enough blood on his hands to drown a city. Geoff shouldered his bag again, and felt for the pistol in its holster below his arm. Corvo didn't know that Daud was here, but he hadn't been able to keep the secret from little Emily. In a moment of weakness, alone with the girl, he'd confessed that he'd heard from Callista.

And the girl had given him a job.

Geoff set off down the lane, trying to control how his chest quivered, how his hands threatened to tremble. Callista was alive and safe. The people he'd spoken to in the next town over had mentioned her only briefly, saying that she volunteered at the local school, and that she spent the rest of the time nursing the man with the injured leg. One woman at the grocer's had known her name.

It had made his heart ache in a strange, indefinable way to realize she wasn't trying to hide, and never had.

As he reached the front door, he heard thin strains of music coming from behind the house. He hesitated, and then left the door and circled around the side of the cottage. There was a patio out back, filled with vibrant and colorful flowers and plants, and cheerful music played from a small set of speakers on the deck table. Standing with her back to him, pouring two glasses of sparkling water, was Callista.

He stared.

She was still the same narrow, angular woman he had raised, her hair still an easily-forgotten shade of dun, her shoulders still eternally hunched inward by a few degrees as if she were perpetually cringing away. But her skin had a warm glow to it, only partly from her tan. She wore a bright blue sundress and he could see no trace of bruises on her skin, even on her throat. There were no lovebites, no scrapes, no signs of any physical threat to her. His mouth went dry. As she straightened up the two place settings at the table, she rocked her hips to the music, and he realized he could hear her humming along.

He hadn't expected this. The satchel slung over his shoulder felt too heavy. The last time he had seen her so at peace, so carefree, so engaged and yet without fear or wariness had been years ago, before he'd become her guardian, before the pots of ashes had begun to accumulate in his office. She'd been just a little girl. Life hadn't deadened her, hadn't turned the world bleak and grey.

He swallowed thickly and then opened his mouth to call her name.

She looked up as if she could sense him.

Their eyes met, and he didn't know what to do. He'd never known what to do. He was her uncle, and in some ways her father, and in some ways just a stranger made distant and too-close by grief at the same time.

"You came," Callista said, and her voice wavered as she spoke. And then she smiled.

But she didn't run to embrace him.

"You should have hidden better," he said, the words coming out rough and hard-edged. "If I could find you, Corvo can."

"Did you tell him?" she asked, voice softening even as her expression turned hard.

He shook his head.

Her cheeks were fuller than he remembered them, and pink from the sun except for a black and grey spotted pattern along her right cheek and jaw. _Powder burn_. Old, but he couldn't be sure how old. It was a strange place for one, too.

Behind her, Daud stepped out of the cottage and onto the deck. He held a plate of seasoned meat, no doubt destined for their little grill, and he leaned most of his weight on a crutch. His leg was immobilized with a brace over his pantsleg.

He paused for only a moment, then hobbled over to the grill, pointedly putting his back to Geoff. "It's a good thing we had a largish dinner planned," he said, lightly.

Geoff caught a flicker of another smile on Callista's lips, easing away the hard edges. "Will you stay?" she asked, eyes still fixed on him.

Geoff looked between the two of them, then swallowed, thickly. "Not for very long, no. I have to get to Cullero by tomorrow afternoon. I came to bring a message."

Callista's expression turned wary once more, and it struck him, lanced through him. She wasn't supposed to look at him like that. They'd always been on the same side. He took a deep breath, and pulled the satchel from his shoulder, setting it down in one of the chairs at the table.

"From?" Daud asked, starting up the grill. His attention seemed almost entirely on his task, but Geoff knew better. The hitman was on high alert. He was more restrained than Corvo, and more difficult to read, but Geoff knew that particular kind of easy tension in the man's shoulders. He was ready to kill, if need be.

Geoff looked only at Callista as he pulled the laptop from his bag. "Emily."

Callista slowly lowered herself into the other chair. "Emily?" she asked, quietly.

"She wants to talk to you," Geoff said, voice equally soft, and as he opened the laptop, he had a brief flash of a future where Callista came home willingly, where she melted at Emily's strength and her still-childish need for comfort and company. But he wasn't Corvo; the Outsider didn't send him prophetic visions in the night.

He hit a few keys, establishing a satellite link with the capital. Before he could hit _Initiate Call_, though, Callista shot to her feet.

"I don't know that I can do this," she said. "Can you- just tell her that I'm okay, and that I'm sorry for everything that happened?"

Geoff hit _Initiate_, and Callista bit her lip, then sank back down into the seat.

It took about thirty seconds for Emily to pick up on the other end; they'd coordinated half an hour before, when Geoff first set out for the vineyard. Geoff stepped away from the laptop once it was angled properly at Callista, and tried to look more or less at ease.

"Callista Curnow," Emily said, with all the gravitas she'd learned in her captivity. He couldn't see if the girl was smiling or not, but he suspected not.

"Hi, Emily," Callista said.

Behind her, Daud settled a few steaks on the grill, the hiss of cooking meat filling the air.

"I see _he's_ still with you," Emily said.

"He is. Did Corvo tell you he was alive?"

"I told him he was stupid for not taking care of that. Daud is a security risk."

"I'm retired," Daud said, not turning around. "And I will be very happy to never see Dunwall - or any part of Gristol - ever again."

"He's a security risk, and I hate him," Emily continued. "Which is why I've sent Captain Curnow, because I know _he_ at least obeys my orders. Captain?"

Geoff's heart sank. He'd been hoping-

But it didn't matter. He unholstered his pistol, slipped off the safety, and pointed it unwaveringly at Daud. "Ready, Your Highness."

Callista had gone white. Daud had not turned around.

"Don't do this," Callista said, looking between the screen and Geoff. "_Don't do this_. We chose not to disappear completely because we wanted you to know where we were. So you could feel safe."

"Callista, remember when I told you what I wanted to do to Daud when I was Empress?" Emily asked. Her voice had gone soft and gleeful. "At least your uncle will make it fast. And then you can come home. I'm sorry for yelling at you to leave. I'm sorry about the books. But it was a _really hard time_, and you were with Martin. And you always make the wrong choices."

Callista shook her head, and slowly stood up. "Emily, I left because I didn't want to hurt you anymore."

"You left because you make the wrong choices. It's just what you _do_. But I'm your Empress, right? That means I can make them for you."

Geoff flinched. The girl was imperious to a fault. She had been denied control over her life for so long that now she grasped for it in every corner. One day, he hoped, she'd grow out of it. With the right nurturing, the right guidance...

"Emily, _please_," Callista said, and Geoff realized with a start that she was slowly putting herself between him and Daud.

_Don't do this_.

"You don't know what's best for me," Emily said. "You always thought you did, but you always got it wrong. And I don't want Daud to live anymore, and I don't want you to have a life with him." Her tone grew sharp, bitter, hurt. "Why did you pick _him_ over _me_? I needed you."

"Because I knew you'd be safe," Callista said, looking away from the screen and focusing on Geoff. "Because I knew I made the wrong choices for you, and I didn't want to keep doing that. Because- because I-"

Daud finally glanced over his shoulder. He looked at Callista, squarely between Geoff and him, and his expression softened, turned to one of pain. But he didn't tell her to move. At first, Geoff felt red-hot anger at that, that he wouldn't try to protect Callista, that he would allow her to risk herself shielding him.

And then the anger cooled, and Geoff's hand wavered, because Daud wasn't making Callista's decision for her. He wasn't even relying on her to protect him. He was hurt by it, but he let it happen.

Geoff lowered his gun.

"Your Highness," he said, "please reconsider. It is my professional opinion that these two are not a threat to you."

Emily didn't respond. He waited for her snap of _I don't care about that_. He waited for an order, a demand. Nothing came.

And then Emily said, "Lower your weapon, Geoff. I guess." She sounded as if she'd been scolded.

Geoff flicked the safety back on and slipped his gun into its holster, then circled around in front of the laptop.

Emily was sitting with her cheek propped on one small fist, and she looked incredibly frustrated and tired. She pouted.

"I guess," Emily said, "that you kind of deserve to be there with each other. I mean, you do like each other a lot. And you're right, this way you can't make the wrong decisions about me anymore. Serkonos is far enough away. I guess."

Callista let out a deep, bone-weary sigh, sagging where she stood. Daud turned away again and flipped the steaks over.

"Are you happy?" Emily asked.

Callista looked to Geoff, then came over to stand next to him, peering at the screen. "If I say yes, will you be mad?" she asked, and he wasn't sure who she was addressing.

Emily stared her down. "A little," Emily said. "More if Daud says he's happy, too. I don't like him being happy."

"He's in a lot of pain every day, if that helps," Callista offered. Emily's lips quirked a little.

"Well, that's good, at least. And you have a vineyard? Is it pretty?"

Callista reached forward and picked up the laptop, turning it to give Emily a panoramic. "It's getting there," she said, and set it down again. She settled into a seat. Geoff settled his hand on her shoulder, and she didn't pull away. It released something that was resting tight in his chest.

Emily huffed a sigh. "Being Empress is hard, you know. People don't all like me. I thought they would. They liked- mom."

"I know," Callista said. "But you'll get there. Are you- angry a lot?"

"Every day. I thought I wouldn't be anymore. Now that I have my own room and I can tell people what to do and Corvo's back. But I'm angry a lot."

Callista nodded. "It's normal, you know. A lot of horrible things happened to you that never should have happened. And I'm sorry for the horrible things _I _did to you, and let happen."

Emily looked at her for a long moment, then looked down. "I forgive you," Emily mumbled. "I mean, you should definitely still be sorry. But you got me home. Corvo told me how you helped. He said you killed Martin."

Callista flinched. Geoff had only heard a small part of what happened at the lighthouse from Corvo, but he'd put some of the pieces together out of the inconsistencies in Corvo's story. He'd said that Martin killed himself, but later told Emily that Callista had killed him.

And from the ashen look on Callista's face, Geoff suspected both might be true. He looked again at the powder burn on her jaw, and wanted desperately to take her in his arms and ask what exactly had happened that day.

And he wondered if he had enough time to sit and stay for dinner, and do just that.

"Corvo did most of the work. And Daud," she said. "But yes, I helped. And I'm glad you're safe. I'm so glad." She smiled. "That's all I ever really wanted."

Emily fidgeted in her seat, clearly growing uncomfortable with all the weighty talk. "Well, I'm safe. And my new tutors aren't as good as you. They don't let me draw unless it's art class, _and_ they make me do sums."

"I made you do sums," Callista offered as Daud brought dinner over to the table. He'd cut one of the larger steaks in two, and as Geoff watched, he went to go get a third plate from the kitchen.

"Yes, but it was _different_," Emily said, and Geoff, after a moment and a kiss to the crown of Callista's head, went to follow Daud.

He found the man leaning heavily on one of the old countertops, retrieving silverware.

"She's really happy?" Geoff asked, quietly.

Daud looked up. "I think so. I want her to be, very badly."

Geoff nodded to himself and leaned against the doorframe. "... If you ever hurt her-"

"Well, you know where we live," Daud said, pushing the drawer closed and limping towards where Geoff stood, and where his crutch was propped up. "And I can't exactly run away these days." He hesitated, then, pursing his lips and considering Geoff. "... She misses you a great deal, you know. And I wish she could have both lives. But for now she's chosen this one."

Geoff frowned at the scarred, broad-shouldered man in front of him, whose expression softened every time he looked at Callista. "For now?"

"I remind her every day that she can leave, whenever she chooses. And maybe when I can walk every day without help, she'll leave. I don't know. But I won't stop her."

Geoff looked at Daud, and Daud didn't look away until Callista called for the both of them.

And then Geoff offered Daud his crutch, and the two went out to join her.

* * *

That night, half an hour after Geoff had left to catch a cab that would get him to his arranged ride to Cullero, Callista stood at the sink and washed the dinner plates. They'd only just gotten the plumbing working again two weeks before, and the boiler six days ago. The hot running water was a blessing.

Geoff's visit had been a blessing, too. It had unknotted something deep in her chest, once the initial wariness and panic had faded. And it had been good to finally talk to Emily, to apologize. She was exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, and she relished it.

It helped her to not miss Geoff so terribly already.

Callista set a plate in the drying rack and looked around their tidy little kitchen. It had been her and Daud's second priority, after making sure the ceilings above the bedrooms would hold. They still slept in separate beds most nights, both too unused to having space or company. There had even been a moment, early on, when she'd doubted that he'd even want her in his bed again, after the first week of their freedom had passed without so much as a touch or a kiss. She'd begun to suspect that their intimacy _had_ been a product of the stress they'd been under. She'd buried herself in taking care of him and getting started on the repairs the cottage so desperately needed, until one day, Daud had caught her wrist and informed her in no uncertain terms that she needed rest and care as much as his leg did, and that if she didn't lie down on the bed with him that instant, that he would hobble over to where his phone was charging and call a nurse to look after them both.

Then he'd kissed her, and things had gone much more smoothly.

The doors out to the patio closed, the latch clicking softly, and she listened to Daud's uneven gait as he approached. In public he preferred to use a cane and go without a brace, but in private he needed the crutch, needed the plastic keeping his knee immobile. Callista set the last of the plates aside, and turned to face him just as he set his crutch aside and reached for her waist.

She slid into the circle of his arms easily, and leaned against him, resting her burned cheek on his shoulder. He'd given up the suit jackets and, on most days, the leather gloves, and the warm weather meant his sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his shirt was unbuttoned a few inches. Sometimes he even left his hair wild instead of carefully slicked back.

"That went much better than I'd hoped," Daud said, leaning his good hip against the counter to take their weight off his knee. His thumb rubbed against her hipbone, soothingly. "Are you okay?"

"As okay as I can be with somebody pointing guns at us again," she said, sighing. As she settled against him, she let her exhaustion turn to something simpler, something more honest. That meant the fear came back in little drops, along with her sadness at losing her uncle again. "And if it had been anybody else that Emily had sent-"

"But it wasn't," Daud reminded her in a low rumble, pressing his lips against her forehead. "And I think your uncle is past wanting my head, now."

"I should hope so." She pulled back a little, looking at Daud. "Do you think he'll visit again soon?"

"If he can get away from Corvo. I don't have much hope for Corvo deciding he desperately wants to be friends."

"Geoff did say that Corvo is trying to have a normal life again," she reminded him.

"I suppose you're right. And you were right about what would happen if you sent that letter, too. So I suppose there's always a chance."

She smiled, easily. "Thank you for trusting me."

He chuckled. "Always."

_**The End**_


End file.
